


Almost Perpetually

by sunbreaksdown



Series: Inexplicably British [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, F/F, Humanstuck, Inexplicably British
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-28 06:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbreaksdown/pseuds/sunbreaksdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life was easy, back before university became part of your routine. But it's not the late nights that are getting to you, and it isn't the studying, either. It's more to do with the fact you've been having these funny <i>thoughts</i> about your flatmate.</p><p>... along with the girl she's sleeping with. Life was doubly easy, back before Vriska Serket and Rose Lalonde came into the picture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

     The representative from the Student Union explains that he really is very, very, exceptionally, inordinately, _embarrassingly_ sorry, as well as a range of other adverbs you don't catch, but there's been a problem with housing. What the problem is, exactly, still remains unclear. He's rambled about the situation in the vaguest of terms upwards of four times now, becoming sorrier with every explanation he gives, though the stack of paperwork he's shuffling through must be for show. You've caught a few words here and there as he flicks through the wad in his hand, and you highly doubt it actually has anything to do with accommodation at all.

     The girl next to you huffs loudly, then leans towards you, saying that she'd wish this chump would hurry it up and sort out whatever the hell actually is the issue. She might be speaking in your direction, but there's no way she's trying to do anything other than rile up the representative. You see him frown, and fight with the urge to look up from the text message he's just got, the one he assures you strictly pertains to business. Half an hour ago, you might've felt sorry for him, but now you're sorely tempted to leave him alone to face off against the girl who complains every eight minutes, like clockwork, that she wants to go outside and _smooooooooke_. Still, her constant complaining can't be held against her, because you yourself are so irritated that you're actually considering thinking about entertaining the idea of possibly smoking, maybe. Not that you ever would, but the thought of actually going ahead and allowing yourself to imagine the scenario does something to distract you from the muddled situation for a few blissful seconds.

     It's four-thirty in the afternoon, and you're absolutely starving. It took you three hours to drive here, and you've been stood in the reception of the student village ever since eleven-fifteen, the exact time you were asked to arrive. You filled out all of the forms correctly, checked them over a handful of times, and yet all the other new students who wandered in after you, taking their time, were shown to their flats while you waited and waited. All to no avail, despite the way that multiple people reassured you multiple times that things were being processed, though what _things_ they were, no one ever said.

     A fantastic start to your stay at university, no doubt. You're glad that your mother didn't come down with you, because she'd be fretting and fussing like nobody's business right now, whereas you're sure this is all going to be sorted out in due course.

     “This is never going to be sorted out,” the girl grumbles with a groan, throws her hands in the air, and then walks in a circle before eventually deciding to drop herself down into one of the armchairs. The representative's text messaging has evolved into a phone call, and he stands some distance from the both of you, one finger in the ear that his mobile doesn't cover to demonstrate just how important the conversation is. With a quick glance across the room, you decide to sit down in the vacant armchair, and then take a good thirty seconds to bring yourself to go through with your plan.

     Your companion slouches in her seat, sighing loudly to herself, mumbling under her breath about how stupid this is, how she knew that this whole thing was a bad idea from the start. You concur, but say nothing, head full of half-sentences that don't link up as you try to parse the words together. There's plenty you could say to her. The two of you are stuck in the same situation, and you could make your annoyance known. You could even point out how hungry you are, or say that you hope your belongings are still safely locked away in your car. She's wearing a pair of loosely tied Doc Martens. You could tell her you like that particular shade of red, because like that, you don't have to comment negatively on her wardrobe decisions. Baggy jeans, baggy shirt, neither of which were probably intended to look so oversized; they just hang off her frame that way. Messy black hair, glasses clumsily resting on the bridge of her nose, covering an eye patch. No, no, don't comment on the eye patch.

     You _could_ just ask what her name is, because university is supposed to be as much about being social as it is about being educated, but she's biting at her nails, and you feel like you'd be bothering her.

     The Student Union representative rushes back over to you, as if you haven't been there for hours already and saving a second or two will make a difference, hand covering the mouthpiece of his phone. He says, _Look, guys, here's the deal_ , and goes on to explain that there was an administrative error with the accommodation allocation. Both of your rooms, two that happened to be in the same flat, were accidentally double-booked, and he's _so_ sorry, but they've made alternate arrangements for you. There's a block of flats down the road, and the university owns a floor of it; it's actually closer to the university than the student village, and aren't you lucky, not having to worry about sharing a kitchen with six other strangers?

     You don't feel particularly lucky. You were looking forward to living with so many new people, and you chose these halls of residence for a reason. He can't miss the frown etched into your face, and reassures you that you really will be in the heart of things, and that there will be plenty of other students on your floor. Nothing's set in stone, and so if you really, really can't stand it, then there's probably something the university can do to remedy the problem. The girl next to you is of absolutely no help, as she's now sitting with the soles of her boots against the seat of the armchair, knees pulled up to her chest, staring out of the window. After a moment, you nod, suppose that you'll try it out, and take the keys being offered out to you.

     “We're so fucked,” the girl says once you've jotted down the address. “I have the shittiest luck in the world. _God_.”

     She gets to her feet, slings the sort of rucksack that hikers use over her shoulders, nearly tipping over backwards from the weight of it. The suitcase by the door is hers too, and you wait until she's managed to hoist it up off the floor, at which point she realises you're lingering and snaps _What?_ at you.

     You fold your arms across your chest, eyebrows raised. You realise that it's been a very, very long day for the both of you, but there's no need for her to take it out on you. Especially not as this girl is to be your new flatmate. While first impressions don't necessary have to be perfect, and are allowed to consist mostly of awkwardness, there's no need for hostility to come into the equation.

     “I was wondering what method of transportation you employed to arrive here,” you say, and she shakes her head, knocking misplaced strands of hair back into place. “And whether or not you would appreciate a lift, considering that we are both heading to the same destination, and the fact that your luggage appears to be nothing if not extensively heavy.”

     “A lift? You've got your own car? Great!” She cheers up at that, and then barely manages to get out through the reception doors. “Ugh, I had to lug everything here on the train. What a total pain!”

     Happily, your car is in one piece when you reach it, no smashed windows to be seen anywhere. Your own luggage takes up much of the space in there, and you're impressed that you managed to be selective enough in removing garments from your wardrobe in order to ensure that there was actually room for you to get into the driver's seat. You move a few things around, supposing that it doesn't matter too much if you block the rear-view mirror, because you're only going to be driving for a matter of minutes. The girl, who introduces herself as Vriska Serket when it occurs to her to be curious about who the hell you are, anyway, manages to get her suitcase in the back, and sits in the passenger seat with her rucksack and two of your saucepans on her lap, a pack of toilet rolls at her feet.

     You start up the car, and she drums her fingers against her knees. You get the impression that she'd be smoking right now, if she could actually manage to light a cigarette and get it to her lips without setting her bag on fire in the process. She does reach out for the radio, though, fiddling with the dials, despite not having asked if she can turn it on. When she settles on a station, it's clear enough that she's entirely disinterested in it, not caring even a little about what you're listening to.

     For the first time in hours, you're not worried about trying to hold up a conversation, or trying to seem socially competent. This area is entirely new to you, and all of your attention is poured into making sure you're going the right way. When the representative told you that your new flat was _only down the road_ , he may not have been lying, in terms of distance, but there are a dozen turns, roundabouts and one-way systems between you and it. You take in the city as you drive, certain that in a few weeks, you'll be so familiar with all the roads and short cuts that you could get to what, by then, will feel like home, in your sleep.

     You pull into your new road, and realise that apprehension and nerves have taken over from the hunger you were previously battling with. At least the uneasiness you feel won't lead to any embarrassing rumbling noises. You want all of this, your time at university, to go well so very much that you're afraid it's unobtainable because of it. There are so many things that could go wrong, so much that could spiral out beyond your control, but then you pull up in front of the block of flats you've been directed to and have to double-check you're at the right address. It looks— well, it looks _nice_. You've never been an expert in the realms of architecture but you've always had an eye for good design, and from the outside, this already seems a lot more modern and spacious than what you were originally going for. Vriska jabs her finger against the closed window and says that hey, there's one of the campuses, but you can't see it for her rucksack.

     Not wanting to get your hopes up too soon, you lock up your car and head up with nothing in your hands but the keys. Vriska trails behind you, hands in her pockets, and then immediately brightens up when she sees you hit the key for the eighth floor in the lift. Grinning, she says she thinks it's great that you're not going to have to deal with any suckers, because you seem okay, Maryam. You decide to file that remark under the category of compliment, having enough to worry about as it is. You unlock the flat when you reach it, after making sure that the number on the door matches the one on the key, step in, and find that, dramatic pause—

     There was absolutely nothing to be worried about in the first place. For a moment, you just stare into your new flat, not quite able to believe it. Vriska slaps a hand against your back, between your shoulder blades, and it forces a smile out of you. There are two bedrooms, opposite one another, and Vriska calls dibs on the one she wants first, despite them both being identical, size and contents-wise. The living room and kitchen aren't distinct from one another by means of walls, but they're both decently sized, a sofa in the living area, and enough room in the kitchen to throw a meal together. The bathroom, too, is as big as it needs to be, and the whole set up is wonderfully compact and, dare you say it, cute.

     Now all that remains is to make the flat your own. You and Vriska head back downstairs, and she finally gets that cigarette you were sure she'd forgotten about. While she smokes, shuffling on the soles of her feet on one spot of the pavement, you begin taking your belongings upstairs, because you have much more than her to carry, anyway. By the time Vriska's done, you can see in one window of your car and out another again, and she opts to carry as much as she can in one trip. She takes her suitcase and her rucksack, and then hoists up what's left over of yours in her free arm. Probably only because it doesn't occur to her that it isn't hers. She gets back to the flat, walks into her room with it, and then deposits it outside of her door when she realises that belongs to you.

*

     The start of the semester is still a week away, and you spend your time settling into your new home. Your fears of being isolated from the rest of the student body were unfounded, because during your very first night there, one of the boys two flats down from you hosted a little get together for the floor, at which there was much takeaway pizza and nervous, excited conversation. It went fairly smoothly, because there were always the topics of _So, what are you studying?_ and _Where are you from?_ to fall back on. You ask these same questions to Vriska, who informs you that she's doing drama, and she's come from, pause, shrug, London. Two hours later, she decides to grace you with the same questions, and then decides that, yeah, you look like you'd be good at fashion “and stuff.” Again, you decide that's a good thing.

     You unpack your belongings as quickly as you can, eager to get everything in place. You fill the kitchen cupboards and the fridge with what you brought along with you, but Vriska doesn't seem to have much to contribute, other than a box of chocolatey cereal and some instant noodles. Later, she heads down to the corner shop, buys a six pack of cheap beer, and tells you can you can share them with her, if you want.

     You like her. It's strange, but you do. You've been living together for three days, and she makes no effort to get to know you. In any other instance, doing as much would come off as rude, but with Vriska, it makes things seem oddly naturally. Like you've known her for longer than you actually have. There are no tedious questions, like those that everyone you meet asks, and she doesn't hold back from being herself. Even if she does perpetually smell of cigarette smoke and has yet to stumble across the interesting hand-held device known as a hairbrush. She speaks bluntly to you, and after a few of those cheap beers of hers, you find yourself fussing away, as is your wont.

     Vriska takes up as much of the sofa as is humanly possible for such a scrawny girl, and you sit comfortably perched on the edge, no longer concerned at being able to taste the aluminium of the beer can. You don't mean to stare, but it's difficult to feel as inhibited as you usually would after a good meal (you made her falafel wraps for dinner, because the most you've ever seen her eat in one sitting is a slice and a half of greasy pizza) and a few drinks. You can't help it. She's an interesting girl, abrasive and thoughtless and actually sort of funny, when you really get down to it. Unfortunately, you may have glanced her way for a moment too long, because she catches you looking, and then props herself up against the arm of the sofa.

     Suddenly very interested in your beer, you begin chugging down great mouthfuls as she does the same. And although you're no longer looking her way, you can feel her gaze boring into the side of your face, as she stares at you over the brim of her drink.

     “It's not just for show,” she says, and you immediately look around, though you know what _it_ refers to. She taps at the useless lens that covers the patched eye, and honestly, that's not what you were staring at. After a few days, you stopped noticing it quite as much.

     “Oh,” you say, and then say no more. Uncharacteristically so of you, apparently, because Vriska gives you a look that says she expects you to ramble on about more. “... thank you for the beer. It really has a unique flavour.”

     “You mean it tastes like barf?” Vriska says with a grin, finishing off the last of her can as you press the pad of your tongue to the roof of your mouth, trying to discern whether or not the after taste will ever fade.

*

     It's hard to believe that you're already a week into the semester, and harder still to believe that seven days can simultaneously feel both so long and so short. Your mother calls you, and though you have so much to say, when you finally get a chance to discuss things with her, all you can tell her is that yes, the university is lovely and all of the teachers are wonderful, and that you get on well with everyone you've met so far, flatmate included. You're fully enrolled, have had a taste of all your lectures and seminars, and have even been dragged into joining a few societies at the freshers' fair. You suppose you might end up attending several sessions at the cake baking society, but mostly, you're certain you're going to have an inbox full of unwanted emails within a few days.

     You make sure to talk to as many people as you can, and don't drink any more of Vriska's beer. You've heard rumours that it doubles as a rat poison. On Wednesday, you have lunch with Aradia and Nepeta, two of the girls from one of your elective modules, and on Friday night, you go to a local bar with a group of people from your course, and a bunch of others they've managed to convince to tag along. Vriska doesn't want to come, though you ask her twice. She seems to make absolutely no effort to talk to anyone, always says that her day was just _okay_ , and grunts when you ask her what the people on her course are like. By the time that Saturday night rolls around, you've exhausted your social reserves, and you're glad of the chance to have an evening to yourself.

     Glad of it until it's eight PM, and you've already run out of things to do. Karkat, your best friend from back home, isn't online, and nothing seems to be happening on any of the websites you usually flock to. You study the course material you've already been given two, three times, but each time you only find that you've already gone over and completed absolutely everything you've been assigned thus far. Vriska's not in, and she didn't tell you where she was going, so you have no idea when to expect her back. In the end, you opt to email Karkat, saying that you hope his course is going as well as yours is, and that perhaps he'd like to visit some time soon. The sofa in your living room may as well be put to good use. After a few hundred pages of the book you're in the middle of and some aimless web surfing, it's eleven o'clock, and you suppose that's not _too_ early to go to bed.

     You must have been more tired than you first thought, because your body and mind alike give themselves over to sleep without any resistance. You've been exerting a lot of energy this week, both physically and mentally, and worrying certainly does a lot to drain a person. But all the problems you were faced with have resolved themselves, and you don't think it's preemptive to begin believing that things really are going to go well. All of that added up leads to a night of wonderful, uninterrupted sleep; or it would, if Vriska didn't get home at half-two in the morning, making a racket as she stumbles through the flat. It's not the first time she's come home late, and you can't really get angry at her for being frivolous over the weekend. You're not a hundred percent awake, anyway, and by the time she makes it back to her own room, you've accustomed yourself to any disruptive noises.

     For some reason, she decides to put music on, kicking off with something you suspect to be Black Sabbath's work, but by then, you're too close to dreaming to care.

     Sunday morning naturally follows a Saturday night, but you're disappointed nonetheless when you wake up and it's not a school day. You've little doubt that by the time you're midway into the semester, you'll be relishing every break bestowed upon you, but right now, everything is glimmering in various shades of new and exciting. You decide to stay in your pyjamas for a little longer, because they are, after all, a particularly nice pair, especially after you did a little embroidering around the wrists and collar. It didn't take you long to become familiar with Vriska's habit of spending her days wearing a pair of men's boxers and a vest top, if she can get away with it, and so you decide there's absolutely nothing immodest about roaming around in your nightwear.

     After a few moments spent in front of the mirror, combing your short hair back into place with your fingertips, you head out into the living area, greeted by the sight of the lamp having been knocked from the coffee table. Knocked over, but not broken, thankfully. With a sigh, you pick it up, put it back into place, and consider rearranging the furniture so that a drunken Vriska doesn't try to tear a path straight through it in an effort to get to her room. Stepping into the kitchen, you begin taking this-and-that out of the cupboards, and register pleasant surprise when you realise that you can hear the shower running. It's barely nine o'clock, and you hadn't expected to see a no-doubt hungover Vriska for the better part of the day.

     Chopping up a handful of mushrooms, you call out, “Vriska, I am making omelettes, which I am told are an excellent dish for battling with whatever internal conflict is currently occurring inside the confines of your skull, sparked off by the last remaining dregs of alcohol. Would you like one?” You may be making the effort to ask, but Vriska Serket is getting breakfast whether she likes it or not.

     There's a brief silence, and then a rattling from inside of Vriska room. The door swings open, and Vriska sticks her head out, eye patch on upside down, glasses missing, hair somehow bigger than you've ever seen it before. She looks _awful_ , and the only reason you don't point out that her shirt's on backwards is because there's Vriska, hanging out of her door, squinting as if the light burns her eyes, while _someone_ is currently occupying your bathroom.

     “What?” Vriska huffs, as if you've just asked her the singularly most stupid question of all time. You glance at the bathroom door, cringe, but nothing comes of it; she can't make out that much without her glasses, it seems. “Do whatever you waaaaaaaant, Fussyface!”

     Vriska slams the door behind her, and you stare blankly at it, like she's still stood there. Apparently, Vriska alone wasn't to blame for all of that noise last night, and in spite of the way that you slowly feel yourself turn red, you can't help but note how considerate it was of Vriska to put some music on. You're hardly naïve to the ways of the world, but knowing that something happens is quite different to being caught in the middle of it. The water's not running in the bathroom anymore, and shake your head to yourself, hurrying to focus entirely on your latest culinary conquest in progress.

     You try to think it through rationally. Vriska's in her room, and from the looks of things, is going to spend the rest of the day curled up in a miserable pile with her duvet. The stranger in the bathroom is possibly in a similar condition, and won't want to hang around for long. It doesn't have to be awkward. Well, it does, but it doesn't have to be awkward for _you_. If anything, it should be awkward for the stranger who's probably dressed already, oh god, and Vriska, because they're the ones getting up to all sorts of painfully stereotypical student activities.

     The bathroom door opens. You almost drop your spatula. Despite trying to remain perfectly composed, you can't help but glance over your shoulder and—

     And, oh, you weren't expecting _that_.

     Already wrapped in a jacket, preparing to make a quick exit, is a very blonde girl with very, very black lips. Your first thought is that it's strange she's taken the effort to put lipstick on when that's clearly last night's mascara smudged lightly around her eyes, where the warm water hasn't managed to wash away the whole of it. She catches your gaze for half a second, and although she doesn't look anywhere as badly off as Vriska does, her eyes are red, bloodshot. Any claims to any awkwardness not being experienced on your part were utter nonsense, and you squeak out a good morning, to which she nods curtly, one hand wrapped around the strap of her bag, before heading straight to the front door. She's gone without another word.

     The pan sizzles as you pour the breakfast concoction in, and as the mixture settles and the noise dies down, you realise that you can hear the blood pounding in your ears. Your face is burning for absolutely no good reason, and it's only surprise that's doing it; you weren't expecting a girl to step out of the bathroom, that's all. Not that you have a problem with that, far from it in fact, but some part of you wishes that Vriska had actually told you.

     Now you're being stupid. You've not known Vriska for that long, you've said nothing of the sort to her, so why does she owe you anything in return? You flip the omelette over, biting on your lower lip. Vriska isn't the sort of person who talks about herself, unless it's to brag by way of bringing up the misfortune of others, and you're hardly entitled to know every little thing about her. If Vriska wants to drink and bring girls back to the flat, then that's every bit her business.

     You don't knock before taking the omelette into Vriska, and step on what feels like three loose dice on your way over to her bed. You put the plate on her bedside table, along with a glass of water, and she grumbles out her thanks. Vriska doesn't say anything about the blonde girl then, not even dismissively, and she doesn't bring it up when she finally crawls out of bed, the next morning. When three days pass and she hasn't so much as alluded to her, you decide it really isn't something that weighs on her mind.

     It's all sorted, then. There's nothing to worry about, because it didn't mean anything.

*

     The very blonde girl with very, very black lips works at your campus's coffee shop. She also wears the same make-up to work, sans the mascara smudges.

     You're taking the possibility of turning and bolting very, very seriously, but you've been in the queue for upwards of four minutes, and you know she's already spotted you. Fleeing would be all too obvious, and so standing your ground it is. As you wait to be served, you take your purse out of your bag, and poke around at the coins inside, as if you don't already know exactly how much you have, and how much your coffee is going to come to. It serves as decent enough a distraction and helps you avoid making any preemptive eye contact, and the rational part of your brain reassures you that nobody knows you're recounting your money purely to have something to stare at.

     When you get closer, you see that the badge pinned to her apron reads _Rose_ , and then feel as if you know far more about her than you ought to. The apron itself is green, standard issue for all those who work in this particular chain, and it goes horribly with the plaid blue shirt she's got on underneath, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. You've absolutely no recollection of what she was wearing when she hurried out of your apartment, but focusing on the painfully obvious fashion flaws this girl puts forwards helps you regain some of your floundering confidence. Realistically, you're aware she doesn't care that you know all about her spate of very casual sex with your very female flatmate, and so you shouldn't either.

     But easier said than done.

     She smiles at you when you reach the counter, and though she's plastered the same practised, profession expression across her face for the previous handful of customers, you can't help but see something smug about it. Rose recognises you well enough, and it's not until then that it occurs to you there was every chance she didn't even get a good look at you on Sunday morning. She gives you a slight nod, the sort reserved for people you barely know but pass too often in the corridors to ignore them entirely, but after that, it's business as usual. She gives you your drink, you hand over your money, and then you've got a hot coffee and an hour before your next lecture starts.

     It's only around the corridor, and by the time you get to the library and back, it will barely be worth the trip. And so you scope out a free table in the corner, and sit yourself down with your laptop. You start it up, take small sips of your coffee, and maybe allow your gaze to wander over to the counter once or twice. No sooner are you online than is someone pestering you.

> adventurersGambit [AG] began pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]
> 
> AG: Kanaya.  
> AG: Kaaaaaaaanaya.  
> GA: You Have Reached Kanaya  
> GA: There Is No Need To Stretch Your Vowels To Their Very Limits  
> AG: A8out time too!!!!!!!!  
> AG: I've 8een knocking on your door for minutes.  
> AG: Literal minutes, Fussyface.  
> GA: Oh Goodness How Will You Ever Regain Those Precious Clusters Of Seconds  
> AG: I don't know! You'd 8etter get thinking.  
> AG: So I guess you're not in, huh.  
> GA: Your Guess Is An Accurate One  
> GA: I Am Currently Sitting In The Coffee Shop Of Our Campus Considering That I Have The Better Part Of An Hour Before My Next Lecture But Do Not Wish To Return To Our Joint Dwelling For Such An Insignificant Period Of Time  
> GA: Wait  
> GA: Why Were You Knocking On My Door  
> GA: Is Something Wrong   
> AG: Uhhhhhhhh, I sure as hell hope not! 8ecause if I was in any REAL danger, like a f8re or something, I think I would've 8urnt to death in the time it takes you to clue in!  
> AG: Jesus, you are useless sometimes.  
> GA: Are You Burning To Death Vriska  
> GA: Are You Currently Engulfed In Flames  
> GA: Is That Something Thats Happening At This Very Moment In Time  
> GA: Is The Fire Lapping At Your Skin Is It  
> AG: Quite o8viously not!  
> GA: Then Vriska Please  
> GA: Kindly Shut Up  
> AG: Ouch! What's got into you?  
> GA: Nothing Has Got Into Me Why Would You Assume That There Is Something Bothering Me  
> GA: Would You Just Tell Me What The Problem Is  
> AG: Fiiiiiiiine.  
> AG: We're out of milk.   
> GA: Were Out Of Milk  
> GA: Thats The Big Problem You Are Currently Faced With  
> GA: Vriska You Are Well Aware Of Where The Corner Shop Is Arent You  
> AG: Hey! Don't make light of my pro8blems. How am I supposed to make cereal like this? ::::(  
> GA: Maybe You Should Consider Indulging In Variety As Part Of Your Daily Dietary Routine  
> AG: May8e you should consider not 8eing so high and mighty all the fucking time!!!!!!!!  
> GA: Perhaps You Should Consider Not Insulting Me If Youd Like Me To Pick Milk Up On The Way Home  
> AG: Ugh.  
> AG: ........  
> AG: Ok, you win this round.  
> GA: Dont I Eventually Win Them All  
> AG: Wh8tever!  
> GA: By The Way  
> GA: Do You Know Who Works Here  
> AG: I don't even like coffee. Why would I know who works there?  
> AG: Other than lowlife losers with no prospects! XXXXD Jesus, they'll never amount to ANYTHING.  
> GA: Actually Its Mostly Students Enrolled In This University Who Work Here As A Means Of Supporting Themselves While They Study  
> AG: Kanaya, please.  
> AG: I don't CARE. Just tell me 8efore I can stop pretended to even give a shit.  
> GA: Hmmm Well  
> GA: Rose  
> AG: Who????????  
> GA: Vriska Serket Is That Honestly Just A Question That You Took The Time To Sincerely Type Out  
> AG: Hmmmmmmmm I don't know! Sure looks like it!  
> GA: Think Back Vriska  
> GA: You Were Rather Inebriated At The Time  
> AG: Wow, that sure narrows it d8wn!  
> GA: Saturday night.  
> AG: Oh.  
> AG: ........  
> AG: Ohhhhhhhh.  
> AG: You mean  
> AG: Lalonde.  
> AG: Hahahahahahahaha.  
> AG: Oh 8oy.  
> AG: Does she have one of those dum8 aprons on?  
> AG: I 8et she totally does! Oh man, how retarded can you even get?  
> GA: Now Please Dont Think That Im Casting Any Sort Of Judgement Or Disapproval On You Vriska But  
> GA: You Really Didnt Know That She Worked Here  
> AG: No. Why would I?  
> GA: Well For One  
> GA: Because  
> GA: How Did You Meet Her Then  
> AG: Dunno.  
> AG: At some clu8.  
> AG: Why are you being so nosy, Fussyface?  
> AG: OH W8.  
> AG: 8ecause that's all you ever do! Fussing and meddling and poking your nosey nose into other people's 8usiness!  
> GA: Yes Nosey Nose  
> GA: That Is An Excellent Description Vriska And Not The Least Bit Redundant  
> GA: Anyway  
> GA: Can I Take It That From This You Are  
> GA: That Is  
> GA: Your Interests Of A Romantic Or At Least Physical Sort Reside In The Strictly  
> GA: Shall We Say  
> GA: Female  
> GA: Genre  
> AG: Jesus Christ Kanaya, spit it out.  
> GA: I Just Did  
> GA: The Words Have Successfully Been Dislodged From My Throat   
> AG: And????????  
> GA: And What Is There Something That Needs To Be Added To That  
> AG: Ugh.  
> AG: I j8st  
> AG: Am I g8ing to get a l8cture from you????????  
> GA: No Why Would I Possibly Lecture You About This  
> AG: I d8n't kn8w????????  
> GA: I Do Wish That You Had Felt Comfortable Telling Me That Much Seeing As I Consider Us To Be Friends But Understand Why You Kept It To Yourself  
> AG: Wow.  
> AG: Friends? Really?  
> GA: Yes Really  
> GA: Why Would I Lie About Something Like That  
> AG: I thought I was just your annoying flatmate or something!  
> GA: Hmm Theres No Reason You Cant Be Both  
> AG: lol  
> AG: You're actually pretty funny when you try! ::::)  
> GA: Thank You I Think  
> AG: Don't mention it.  
> AG: Anyway.  
> AG: Now that the milk situation has been resolved, I need to gra8 a shower.   
> GA: Yes You Should Forcefully Seize Hold Of The Shower Head And Demand That It Deposit Cleanliness On You  
> AG: You're also pretty weird when you try........  
> AG: Anyway, l8rs!   
> GA: I Will See You Later  
> GA: With Milk  
> AG: ::::D
> 
> adventurersGambit [AG] ceased pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]

     The next time you glance up from your screen, there's a grin as wide as the near-empty coffee cup beside you plastered across your face, and you've forgotten all about Rose Lalonde. Forgotten about her, until you abruptly find yourself less than half a metre from her, eyes locked together, no matter how you try to break the contact by means of blinking. She's stood in front of your little table, designed for two, but having had one of its chairs pillaged, picking up an empty mug thoughtlessly left there by some other student. The smart thing to do here would be to allow a smile to flicker across your lips for the sake of politeness, and then promptly return your gaze to your laptop screen. Possibly throw in some exaggerated typing for added effect, to show that you really, really are busy. Instead, you're vaguely aware of your lips parting, and then it all comes tumbling out:

     “Hello,” you say, like a greeting is in any way appropriate in this situation. Rose, just about to turn away from you, gives you a dry, humourless smile in return. She probably wants to get back to work, probably wants to finish clearing the tables, probably doesn't want to deal with you saying utterly absurd things like, “I was just speaking with Vriska,” as if she's actually shown any interest in what you're doing. As if she wants to talk about Vriska with you; as if she even wants you vaguely alluding to the fact that you know what happened between them. Let the woman keep her regrets to yourself, you think, and when she just _stares_ , you pick up you coffee, and gulp down what remains.

     You are a fool, you know that; acting as if you can speak to anyone you please with practised ease, just because you've become so accustomed to talking to Vriska without much of a hitch at all. You're getting ahead of yourself, bumbling over your words, your topic choices, not keeping your brain-to-mouth filter in check. Worse still, your coffee cup is completely empty, and yet you're still pretending to drink, because Rose hasn't turned back around again.

     After what must be at least a minute, and a disturbingly long minute at that, because you don't think your heart has beaten the entire time, Rose reaches out, pressing her fingers to the bottom of the coffee cup.

     “I'll get you a refill,” she says, eyes narrowing in a way that tells you she either thinks you're amusing, stupid or both. You go to protest as she eases the handle from between your fingers, but she cuts you off to point out that'll be on the house. Well, refusing would be nothing short of rude. You sit up a little straighter in your seat when Rose briefly has her back to you, not wanting to look like you're at any more of a disadvantage than you currently feel. While Rose makes you a second drink and attends to the only other customer at the counter, you refresh your inbox, so as not to seem anxious about something you can't pin down. Karkat's emailed you, and while you're sure the content is very interesting, relevant and angry, you can't focus on the words.

     Rose makes her way back over to you, coffee in hand, and you close the laptop, fingers laced together, hands rested against your knees. She places the cup on the table, and you don't pick it up straight away, lest you down the whole thing in one go. Dragging a chair over from another table, she sits down opposite you, and this close up, with your nerves settled somewhat, you don't think she looks as intimidating as she did mere moments ago.

     “Serket is—” Loud? Obnoxious? Prone to dressing herself in the dark? Chronically lazy when it comes to taking care of herself, but at least slightly narcissistic? Never to blame for anything that goes wrong in her life? Bizarrely pretty, in spite of the bird's nest atop her hair? “A great number of things, which I doubt I have to share with you. You _do_ have the debatable pleasure of living with her, after all.”

     “I apologise for bringing her up,” you say, because it sounds better than _I'm chronically and unforgivably stupid_ , “But this does go to show that first impressions really are comprised mostly of awkwardness and spontaneous outbursts that one will never be able to take back.”

     “Second.”

     “Excuse me?”

     “Technically, it's my second impression of you,” Rose says, and you just now realise that you're holding the coffee cup in one hand again. “My first impression was, mostly, that you enjoy a hearty breakfast, and have no objection to cooking in your pyjamas.”

     Don't say anything in return. Don't even open your mouth to do anything but sip the coffee.

     “My first impression of you was that you require a more effective make-up remover. Preferably one that can be stored in whatever bag you choose to have accompany your choice of outfit.”

     Congratulations, Maryam. You can't even listen to yourself. Now Rose is going to throw any and all desire she clung onto to keep this job to the wind and similarly toss your coffee all over you.

     Or, for some unbeknownst reason, she's going to crack a smile, and for the first time since you walked into the coffee shop, you're going to feel that she isn't figuratively towering over you.

     “Touché,” she says, and then gives pause. “Serket only made mention of you as _Fussyface_. I'm assuming your parents and/or guardians didn't actively pen this name down on your birth certificate. Although if they did, I'd be interested in knowing more about the relationship you have with them.”

     A lot goes through your mind, like pointing out to Rose that it's only you and your mum back at home. Well, it's just your mother back at home, because you're here now, but you don't need to point that out, because surely she can tell that, surely she doesn't think that you live with your mother, and that would just be needless rambling. The best thing to do is recall how cognitive human beings introduce themselves and not call yourself Manaya Karyam, or some such.

     “Your powers of deduction are impressive,” you say, like you're in full control of the situation and your own mouth, “My name is, in fact, Kanaya Maryam, no matter what Vriska may say to the contrary.”

     Rose gives you the slightest of nods, and then taps at the badge pinned on her apron with a wry smile that, to you, reads _But you already know that_. Something in the air clears, and you begin to feel that just maybe, you could actually have a vaguely successful conversation with Rose, when, on cue, three more students make their way in, talking about how _oh my god, I think I was still a little drunk in that lecture, you should've been there last night_.

     “Duty calls,” Rose says, back on her feet, and you realise that, shit, you have less than four minutes until your next lecture kicks off. You bid her farewell, albeit in more modern terms, and she says that she'll see you again, when you next need a caffeine boost. As you make your way down the corridor, you avoid looking in any of the mirrors lining the walls, because your face feels a little too warm for your own comfort.


	2. Chapter 2

     October ends, the clocks go back, and November brings with it confusing darkness.

     It's near enough pitch-black out when you head home from afternoon lectures, making you feel as if you should have dinner and be in bed by four-thirty. When you have to stay late for a presentation, the one showing off the fruits of your first project, it's nine PM by the time you leave your campus, and you're similarly disorientated. It could have something to do with the rush of it all, the weeks upon weeks of nerves finally being banished, and more than anything, the overall approval from your peers and teachers.

     It could also be the two glasses of wine you were treated to after said presentation, but you're not ruling anything out.

     Either way, you're ridiculously happy, walking briskly back to your flat as if you can outpace the cold that bites at your heels. The street lights frame you with a few misshapen shadows, and you don't worry about how late it is, don't even worry about the fact that you're out on your own. When you get back to your block of flats, the lift can't come down quickly enough, and you don't slow down until you reach your front door and hear a clatter of crashing from inside.

     You grip your key tightly in your hand, fearing that someone's broken in, until you hear Vriska's voice ring out in a symphony of _Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck!_ from inside, and realise that the door hasn't been forced open. Shaking off the last sprinkling of fear left in your system, you hurry to unlock the door, glad that you had those two glasses of wine. You're not sure you could deal with an angry, swearing, possibly flailing, Vriska, without them.

     “Vriska—” you begin before you even get a good look at her, glad that the worry you feel is conveyed in your tone. She's currently hopping around the living area, lamp on the floor (just what does she have against that lamp, anyway?), with a trail of kitchen utensils you're sure she's never touched until this very evening strewn behind her. Vriska grips at her hand, and you glance between her and the kitchen counters; there's actually food beyond cereal on them. You furrow your brow, go to ask Vriska what she's been doing, but then see the blood seeping out from between the fingers clutched around her palm. “Vriska, have you cut yourself?”

     “ _No_ ,” she hisses, and then kicks the sofa. “—yes. I mean, not on purpose! Fuck! Do _something_.”

     “Alright, alright,” you say, dropping your bag to the floor, and though you rush over to her, you still have time to mourn the fact that you're wearing one of your nicer dresses right now.

     You try to make her sit down so you can get a good look at the wound she refuses to uncover, and she snaps at you to fuck off. A few raised eyebrows later and she's staring sheepishly at the floor, shoulders slumped, and then unceremoniously falls against the sofa. You sit next to her, and take hold of her wrist until she finally relents, pulling her hand covering the cut away. You're glad that you've never been bothered by the sight of blood, because the cut on Vriska's palm is an impressive one; luckily, the knife went in at an angle, so the cut isn't as deep as it could've been, in spite of all the blood that, oh goodness, is dripping all over your sofa. That's going to come out of your safety deposit.

     Vriska hisses and whines like a child as you tilt her hand this way and that, trying to determine whether or not this requires medical attention. With her head bowed forward, hair obscuring her face, she grumbles that she doesn't want to be sat in A&E for hours, and with a long-suffering sigh, you tell her that you'll try to take care of it yourself. She's almost endearing when she's not trying to talk herself up, to seem as tough as she usually makes herself out to be. You leave her where she is, fetch a bowl of warm water, an old towel, and scraps of leftover fabric that will make decent enough bandages, and it's not until you head back to the sofa and see her looking utterly so miserable that it occurs to you that her missing eye may have something to do with her apparent dislike of hospitals.

     “What were you doing to get yourself into such a state, Vriska?” you ask, dabbing the wet towel against her open palm to mop up the blood. She hisses every time you make contact with her skin, and sometimes when you don't quite touch her, too.

     Vriska just laughs flatly, looking away from you. She's definitely a little drunk.

     “... making you dinner,” she eventually says, groaning at the end of the sentence like it wasn't something she intended to verbalise.

     “Excuse me?” You don't mean to sound so unabashedly surprised, but that's exactly what you are. Vriska Serket, attempting to make you dinner. You never thought the day would come, and from the amount of her blood that's now staining your fingertips, it was probably for the best that it didn't.

     “You were going to be home late from your dumb fashion show!” Vriska huffs loudly, rearranging herself on the sofa, and you grip her wrist tightly so that she can't yank her hand away. “So I thought I'd try being useful to you for once, but look how well that turned out!”

     It's not rare for Vriska Serket to be very, very angry, but she doesn't often direct that anger at herself. You can't help but smile a little (a lot), because it's not everyday that Vriska proves that she's capable of being thoughtful. It's always gratifying to know that you were right about her all along.

     “That's very sweet of you, Vriska,” you say, and she just bows her head forward, grumbling under her breath that she doesn't care if it's sweet or not, it's fucking bad luck, that's what it is. You're beaming and she can't see it, and so you lean forward to kiss her cheek. Or your lips half brush against her hair, half brush against her cheek, but it's close enough to a kiss, and you think she deserves it for being so (relatively, for Vriska) patient during this whole ordeal. It's not until you lean back and she doesn't look up or say anything that you realise what you've just done, and then you cover your tracks by hurrying to bandage up her now bloodless hand.

     You really didn't need that second glass of wine.

     A lifesaver comes in the form of your phone buzzing in your bag, and you get up far too quickly to answer it. It's your mother, wanting to know all about how your presentation went, and you relish in the chance to momentarily have somebody else to talk to. As you tell her all about the evening, all about the comments you received, you wander across your living room-cum-kitchen, picking up the kitchenware that Vriska saw fit to launch across the room, like that was going to stop either the blood loss or pain in any way, shape or form. Vriska's still on the sofa, most likely sulking, and you know her eating habits well enough to not have to go to the effort of asking her what she'd like to eat. You fire up the oven, and clear away the mangled remains of Vriska's cooking attempt with a faint smile on your face.

     By the time your mother stops nattering in your ear, Vriska's perked up from her near-death experience somewhat, and is leaning over the back of the sofa, watching you curiously.

     “What's that?” she asks, prodding at the make-shift bandage with one finger. You consider threatening her with the promise of potential infection, if she keeps playing with it. “That language you're always speaking? It's totally weird.”

     “No, it's Arabic,” you tell her, pointing your spatula her way in a display of _and you'd better not go forgetting it_. “I was considering taking a trip back home for the weekend.”

     “Huh. Cool.”

     “What about you, Vriska?”

     “What about me?”

     “Are you going to take a trip home? To see your family?”

     Vriska only frowns at that, but it's a different sort of frown to the one she usually presents. This one seems more genuine than the others, those that you suspect she employees solely for the purpose of being dramatic, and for what must be the dozenth time, you know you've said something you shouldn't have. Vriska might be loud and obtrusive, but there are plenty of things that she doesn't talk about; herself, namely, in any context that might be personal in a way that she doesn't blurt out in order to see how uncomfortable it'll make you. She's never once mentioned her parents, or anything of the sort. No phone calls, no visits, nothing.

     “Pffffffff, sure!” she says, flopping down against the sofa, “That's going to happen.”

     “Sorry,” you say, practically able to hear her shrug from across the room.

     “Whatever!” she announces, “I'm absolutely fine with being here. Not like I'd want to go back _there_ , anyway.”

     Smartly, you manage to refrain from asking where _there_ is, and concentrate purely on serving up dinner. By the time that you carry the plates and cutlery over to the sofa, she's avoiding meeting your gaze, rubbing irritably at her eye patch. You put dinner down on the coffee table, grasp at your fork, thinking a new subject is called for.

     “Do you speak anything? Other than English, that is.”

     That manages to earn you a laugh, and Vriska seems surprised enough that she's let the noise out. She grabs her dinner without a word of thanks, rests it on her knees, and says, flatly, “Oui.”

     She shoots you the most unimpressed look when you begin spewing back something in French, and then to your surprise as well as confusion, she repeats back to you what you've just said, accent and intonation perfect.

     “Did you understand that?” you ask.

     “Nah. No idea what I just said! But I do drama, remember? I can act.” She winces as she picks up her fork with her bad hand. “Sometimes, I even remember the stuff I'm supposed to.”

     With the exception of the bloody towel strewn across the floor, dinner proceeds pleasantly enough for you to forget all about the business of Vriska splicing her palm open in an effort to cook for you. A few bites in, she decides that dinner is nothing without beer, and goads you into having one too, because you've just finished a big project, right? So you should be allowed to celebrate, Jeeeeeeeesus, Fussyface! You might've sworn off the aluminium tinge of the beer she favours, but it's difficult to say no to Vriska Serket. You feel as if she has you exactly where she wants you, and the thought doesn't make you quite as uncomfortable as it probably should.

     You relay a few odd words and phrases at her prompting in Arabic, and she repeats them back, nearly perfect every time. You tell her that you're impressed, and of course she _knows_ that you are, duh, because she does have some talents after all. You tell her that you never really doubted it, not at all, and for half a second, it seems that she's surprised to hear that. But then she's back to talking herself up in between mouthfuls of beer and food, and you hate to see your cooking washed down so unapologetically.

     A few hours, a pack of chocolate chip cookies and some mindless television later, and you're wonderfully full. Not to mention a little drunk. You have your feet up on the coffee table, because Vriska kept insisting that you lighten up, and after three cans of beer that Vriska may well brew herself and two glasses of wine, you don't care about your composure quite as much as you usually would. Vriska is similarly slumped next to you, and at some point during the night, she's moved so that some of her hair drifts onto your shoulder like a cluster of dried seaweed. You keep looking at her out of the corner of your eye, but her attention remains fixed on the TV screen.

     You imagine asking her about that missing eye of hers. You imagine gathering the courage to consider asking her to lift back the eye patch, because although she happily roams around the flat in as little as she can get away with, you've never seen her without it. You imagine Vriska Serket opening up to you, and telling you about whatever horrible thing it was she was put through, and then you know you're being ridiculous when you imagine her resting her head against your shoulder. You're putting Vriska into situations she could never conceivably fit into to satisfy your own curiosity as well as a few other things; not to mention that you're a lot drunk.

     You won't keep looking at her when you're sober. You won't keep flexing your fingers against the cushion placed between the two of you in the hope that the movement will be enough to just get her to notice that you're there. You don't _really_ want Vriska Serket to take your hand.

     You tell yourself this over and over like it will obliterate the way you keep on looking at her, the way you want to inch closer but can't make your body move, until Vriska turns to say something entirely arbitrary to you and stops mid-sentence. You blink, realise that there wasn't any need to move closer because you really are within an almost suffocatingly close vicinity to her, and everywhere this could lead flares up in your mind all at once. Noises blare in your head, but you can't tell if they're warning alarms or bells of opportunity. If you could kiss her cheek after two glasses of wine, then surely you can press your lips to hers after three additional beers, and Vriska seems to be waiting for _something_.

     And then, out of nowhere, you think of Rose. Or rather, you think of that stranger stepping out of your shower with bloodshot eyes and yesterday's mascara smeared across her face, and decide that no, you don't want that to be you. There's no way that Vriska could go ahead and forget your name now, but you don't want to have her one moment and then have nothing but her dismissive, casual attitude the next. You lean back, away from Vriska, and then carefully get to your feet. You're a little unsteady, but you think you mumble something about going to bed.

     “Oh. Okay,” she says, taking a moment to look up at you. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Night.”

     You give her one last look as you make your way over to the bathroom to brush the stale, metallic taste out of your mouth, and Vriska Serket is fiddling with her bandages, staring very, very hard at the television, even though the adverts are flickering across the screen.

*

     “I'm sorry to make you do this.”

     Rose manages to make _this_ sound like some sort of Herculean task designed to frustrate you, when really you're making her pancakes on a Saturday morning. Vriska's still in bed, will likely stay in bed for the rest of the day, and this time, Rose has decided that she's not going to make as quick an escape as possible. Whether having entered into some vague state of acquaintanceship with Rose makes this all the more awkward than it would've been if she was some nameless girl awkwardly biting at her nails from the other side of the counter, you can't tell, but the fact of the matter is that _she_ actually seems comfortable. She's wearing one of Vriska's t-shirts and it utterly swamps her, and from the off-hand comments she's made about the quality of the material and the gaudy design on the front, you think she might shovel sulphur onto it and burn it as soon as she's home.

     “Really, it's not a problem at all, Rose,” you say, mentally add _the only problem I currently face is that it becomes increasingly difficult to make eye contact with you after every additional sentence that falls from your lips, and I am beginning to suspect that you're only employing your unyielding sarcasm to every situation in order to make me all the more uncomfortable, and so I will continue staring down at this pan_ , and conclude with, “I'm used to making most of Vriska's meals for her.”

     Elbow on the counter, chin rested against her palm, Rose takes another sip of black coffee, eyebrows lifting.

     “That's incredibly domesticated.”

     “Well, if I do not resign myself to the role of cook and cleaner, then Vriska eats nothing but handfuls of dry cereal, because she cannot even make the monumental effort of purchasing milk for herself, despite being willing enough to make the arduous journey to the corner shop for beer, and I end up with a filthy flat. I do not know what she uses them for, but the number of dice I have stepped on since living here is bordering on the absurd.” Oh my god, why are you still talking? “Sometimes I am tempted to infiltrate her room while she is caught in the grasp of one of her lectures and sort everything out, but I'm not sure whether things have become desperate enough to justify my, shall we say, breaking-and-entering into a private space. I also do not think anything I cleaned would stay tidy for more than eight minutes following Vriska's return.”

     “Mm-hm.”

     You nod as if confirming Rose's need to hum out an _is that so?_ , and get back to work on staring at the pancake currently at your spatula's mercy. Talking to Rose Lalonde is a chore at times, but only when those times happen to revolve around Vriska. You've spent much of the morning talking about Faulkner, and you know all about her chosen course, but as soon as the subject shifts to the matter of Rose and her— _friend_ , you think, always in italics, possibly in dire need of some airquotes, you freeze up. Well, you feel mentally frozen and a little physically tense, but that does nothing to stop the words from soaring right out between your lips.

     You wonder how Rose would react if you had kissed Vriska that one time the opportunity serendipitously presented itself to you. While some part of you wants to make it out to be a bigger deal than it really is, overall, you're sure that Rose probably wouldn't care. She might even congratulate you. Or maybe she'd never find out, because if something _had_ happened, you can't see Vriska tracking down Rose to tell her about it. They are nothing if not casual. The casualest of the casual, in fact. You wonder if they've ever actually had a sober conversation before.

     Rose doing psychology doesn't make talking to her any easier. Every time your words go off track, you imagine her diagnosing you, and, fantastic, now she probably thinks you have OCD. You've really got to stop caring about the state of Vriska's bedroom.

     You hurry to serve the pancakes. After a few mouthfuls you instantly feel better, forget all of your past transgressions in the conversation, and come to the conclusion that all you needed to settle your nerves was a little breakfast. Rose, who must be hungry enough herself after a night of alcohol and extra-curricular activities, no, don't think of that, grips at her cutlery as if she expects her hands to be unsteady, but then cuts the pancakes into even-sized little squares, eating them one piece at a time. She eats like a bird, pecking at what she's been given.

     By the time that Rose makes her excuses and leaves, it's closer to lunch time than it is breakfast. You see her out, and not a moment after you close the door behind her, you hear a crashing from Vriska's room as she rushes towards her door. Turning, you're greeted by a Vriska wrapped in a duvet, lacking in glasses and squinting at you because of it.

     “Oh my gooooooood,” she whines, “I thought she was never going to get the message and leave! I'm starving, Fussyface. _Starving_!”

     “I'm sure,” you say, voice too flat to really humour her. “You could stand to be a better host, Vriska. Honestly, I'm not certain just how comfortable I am with your apparent dependence on me entertaining your guests in the morning.”

     Vriska throws her hands up in the air, and then rearranges the duvet so that it drapes over the top of her head.

     “Then don't _entertain_ them, Maryam! Fuck, just show her the door.”

     She stomps all the way over to the kitchen, glares down at the frying pan and plates you've yet to wash up, and snatches at a box of cereal. When she goes to get a spoon, she pulls the drawer out with such a force that you think the whole thing is going to dislodge and go flying, and then slams it back into the unit with her hip. The fridge doesn't fare much better in Vriska's quest for milk. Stomping back out, she throws herself down on the sofa, pours the milk straight into the box, and begins attacking the cereal with the spoon. Even the way she eats is louder than usual, and all the while, she stares intently at the television like it's actually turned on.

     You have absolutely no idea what her problem is. Vriska Serket is quite clearly beyond pissed off at you, and yet you didn't do anything. Well, you did _something_ , but that something consisted of making Rose breakfast, and therefore saving Vriska the effort of doing so. Not that Vriska would be remotely embarrassed if Rose was turned away without so much as a bite to eat, but you'd be embarrassed for her.

     You consider apologising, but that's just an instinctive reaction, because you really, really want Vriska to stop glaring daggers at the television you know she can see your reflection in. Quickly enough you conclude that you have nothing to apologise for, and that Vriska is simply being childish. You really don't understand her as well as you thought you did; you just can't see the rationale behind treating Rose as Vriska does. But it works for Vriska, you remind yourself, and it doesn't seem to bother Rose, either, so you have to keep your judgements to yourself.

     You have to keep your judgements to yourself and pretend that they stem from something other than jealousy.

     “Look. Just don't become friends with Lalonde, okay?” Vriska grumbles, and after a moment, glances back at you. “You can do better than that, Kanaya.”

     You can't believe that it doesn't occur to you until that moment that Vriska's trying a little too hard to make it seem like she can't stand Rose.

*

     All of your following run-ins with Rose take place in either the coffee shop she works at or in the library. You can't say whether or not she's been over to your flat lately, because not seeing her of a morning doesn't mean that she's not there, or hasn't made her exit already. Vriska falls into an increasingly bad mood, angry at everything and everyone around her, and gets into two bar fights in as many weeks. You're fairly certain that it's simply the stress of the semester ending that's getting her so worked up, but to be on the safe side, you don't breathe a word about Rose Lalonde to her. You even go so far as to slam your laptop shut when Vriska barges into your room and you've got a Pesterlog with her open.

     The semester ends faster than you can account for, and Vriska's mood shifts, though it doesn't necessarily become better. She spends a good number of her days doing what you can only describe as sulking, and even when you drag her out to the cinema to see some drivel about pirates, she still barely cheers up. It only becomes worse when you begin packing to go home for the holidays, and you get the feeling that Vriska isn't going to go anywhere. She's mumbled something about foster parents before, and while she never tells you too much at any one time, you've pieced together enough to know how she's going to spend her Christmas: in this flat, alone, eating chocolate in lieu of an actual meal.

     You feel bad for her, but she'd probably just tell you to take your pity and fuck off if you let her know. And so you inform her that it's usually pretty quiet at your place over Christmas, and that it wouldn't be a problem for your mother to set another place at the table. Vriska just rolls her eye at you like you don't mean it at all, and no matter how you try and convince her that her presence wouldn't bother you at all, she goes to absolutely no effort to believe you. With a long-suffering sigh, you give up, and ask her if she'd at least like to do something on New Year's Eve. After a moment spent acting like she didn't hear you, Vriska guesses that it wouldn't be too lame, and she guesses that she'll think about it, thanks.

     Before you leave, you hand a present over to Vriska, and tell her that she can open it now, if she'd like to. She shrugs as she's already tearing into the paper that you very, very carefully wrapped it in, and then actually _smiles_ when she's greeted by a pair of red Converse and a jacket you put together for one of your projects. Vriska doesn't have much, evident in the fact that the two bags she brought with her are all that she owns, and in spite of winter having crept up on you, she still dresses in shirts and jumpers and not much more. She doesn't exactly have the cash lying around to buy a decent coat and, well, this was part of your course, anyway, and there was no harm in designing it for Vriska.

     It's the first time you've got a smile from her and haven't felt as if your life was in danger because of it.

     It surprises you when Vriska gives you something in return, and surprises you more that you'd simply accepted the fact that you weren't going to get anything. It's badly wrapped in a mismatch of coloured paper that she probably swiped from one of the university's stock cupboards, but you hold it as carefully as you would, had she just handed you over a baby bird. You're about to open it when she raises a hand to thwack one of the backs of yours, and says what the hell do you think you're doing, it's not Christmas for another week!

     As you leave, you reach out to hug her. You don't know why, because you've never been one to dole out hugs, but you're probably not going to see her for close to a month, and it just seems _right_. It's going to be as awkward as everything you do, you think, sure that you're creating a self-fulfilling prophecy, but then you've got your arms around her waist and her chin's jutting into your shoulder, and you really, really wish that she didn't insist on spending Christmas alone.

*

> tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]
> 
> TT: Good news.  
> TT: I now have a pony.  
> GA: Good Morning And Merry Christmas To You Too Rose  
> GA: Now  
> GA: I May Have Misread That So Could You Please Elaborate On This Apparent Pony Possession You Are Now Bestowed With  
> TT: Certainly.  
> TT: And happy holidays.  
> TT: In short: my mother bought me a pony for Christmas. Entirely appropriate, don't you think?  
> GA: Hmm Well  
> GA: I Realise That Its Only Eleven AM But Considering Its Christmas I Assume That Temporal Perimeters Have Little To No Impact On Alcohol Absorption Today  
> GA: So Have You Been Drinking Rose  
> TT: Yes.  
> TT: Even my family likes to embrace certain traditions.  
> TT: But the point still stands. I have a pony, Kanaya. A pony.  
> GA: Okay  
> GA: Then Both You And Your Mother Are Currently At Some Stage of Inebriation And You Have Been Given A Pony  
> GA: Wow What Is Going On At Your Household  
> TT: Honestly, I highly doubt my mother realises the significance of the date.  
> GA: Oh  
> GA: Well What On Earth Are You Going To Do With This Pony Once You Return To University  
> GA: By The Way I Have Decided Its Easier For Me To Simply Believe That You Have An Actual Pony And That This Isnt Some Mind Game  
> TT: It isn't just a pony. My mother thinks of everything.  
> TT: A stable not half a mile from my accommodation has been secured for my pony's future lodgings.  
> GA: Ummmm  
> TT: Yes?  
> GA: Your Mother Bought You A Pony  
> GA: And A Stable  
> GA: Forgive Me If Im Making Assumptions Here But Isnt That  
> GA: You Know  
> GA: Somewhat Financially Crippling  
> TT: ...  
> GA: Shit  
> GA: I Didnt Mean For That To Sound As Offensive As It Probably Did  
> TT: Probably.  
> TT: And you want to know why I work in a coffee shop if my mother is, theoretically, well off.  
> TT: (For the record, she is. She's made a great number of scientific breakthroughs in fields you've never even heard of.)  
> GA: Basically  
> TT: It keeps me entertained.  
> TT: Do you have any idea how much you can analyse a person, simply by watching a tiny snippet their daily routines unfold in the coffee shop?  
> GA: Oh God I Should Have Known  
> GA: This Is Some Sort Of Social Experiment To You Isnt It Rose  
> GA: Perhaps I Should Stop Purchasing My Caffeinated Beverages From That Specific Shop  
> TT: Perhaps.  
> TT: You have been coming by an awful lot, lately. Is your kettle broken?  
> GA: Um  
> GA: Ill   
> GA: Be Right Back  
> TT: Fortunate timing. 
> 
> garmentAmeliorator [GA] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]
> 
> adventurersGambit [AG] began pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]
> 
> AG: Kaaaaaaaanaya!  
> AG: Merry Christmas!!!!!!!!  
> AG: ::::)  
> AG: ........  
> AG: I know you're there, Fussyface! And you 8etter hurry up and answer me, 8ecause I have much 8etter things to do than sit around here w8ing for you.  
> AG: I mean it! If you don't answer in 8 seconds, I'm going.  
> AG: One  
> AG: Two  
> AG: Three  
> AG: Four  
> AG: Five  
> AG: Six  
> AG: Seven  
> AG: S8ven and a half  
> GA: I Apologise For The Delay In Responding To You Vriska But There Is No Need To Move The Hypothetical Counter Up To Seven And Three Quarters  
> GA: You Have My Undivided Attention   
> AG: Hahahahahahahaha, you're lucky! I really was going to leave.  
> GA: I Dont Doubt It  
> GA: Thank You Very Much For The Present Vriska  
> AG: You opened it????????  
> AG: What do you think?  
> GA: I Think That It Was Incredibly Thoughtful Of You Vriska  
> GA: I Am Quite Surprised That You Thought To Get Me Something Like That  
> AG: Pfffffffft! XXXXD You're ALWAYS reading those dum8 vampire novels, Fussyface. It wasn't exactly difficult to figure out.  
> GA: That May Be True  
> GA: But Still  
> GA: I Am Glad You Noticed  
> AG: Um, ok. No pro8lem! I knew you'd like it.  
> AG: So what was keeping you 8efore anyway? Unless you're in class you usually message me 8ack straight away.  
> AG: 8ecause I'm usually your top priority, right?  
> GA: Oh Nothing Really  
> GA: I Was Just Exchanging Seasonal Greetings With Rose  
> AG: You were talking to Lalonde????????  
> GA: No Its A Different Rose Entirely  
> AG: Oh man, so f8nny!!!!!!!!  
> GA: Indeed  
> AG: ........  
> GA: What Is It Now  
> AG: What's her handle?   
> AG: Not that I'm going to message her or anything.  
> AG: Neeeeeeeecessarily.   
> AG: I'm just naturally curious. :::;)  
> GA: Yes Of Course I Am Taking Everything You Just Typed Out To Have Been Done So Entirely Sincerely  
> GA: I Would Say What Dont You Already Know It Like That Surprises Me But  
> GA: It Doesnt  
> GA: So  
> GA: tentacleTherapist  
> AG: Tentacles?   
> AG: ISSUES.  
> GA: Be Careful  
> GA: She Is At Least A Little Drunk  
> AG: Whatever!
> 
> adventurersGambit [AG] ceased pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]
> 
> garmentAmeliorator [GA] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]
> 
> GA: I Deeply Apologise  
> TT: What for?  
> GA: Youll See Soon Enough  
> TT: ...  
> TT: AG: H8y L8londe.  
> TT: Serket's proficiency with the keyboard is truly remarkable.  
> GA: Try Not To Be Too Scathing Against Her Today  
> GA: She Is Spending The Holiday Alone  
> TT: I'll take it under advisement.
> 
> garmentAmeliorator [GA] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]
> 
> adventurersGambit [AG] began pestering garmentAmeliorator[GA]
> 
> AG: TT: While I have you captivated, I may as well discuss the upcoming naming ritual of my new pony.  
> AG: TT: I'm thinking of calling her Maplehoof.  
> AG: What the fuck.  
> AG: You weren't kidding a8out this drunk thing!  
> GA: While The Fact That I Was Not Making Light Of The Situation For Humorous Purposes Remains An Unwaveringly True One  
> GA: The Thing About The Pony Is Not Related To Alcohol Consumption  
> GA: She Really Does Have One  
> AG: What the hell????????  
> AG: Oh my god, I 8et she's going to dissect it or something! UGH, what a huge 8itch.  
> GA: Vriska Please  
> GA: Rose Isnt Going To Take A Scalpel To Her Pony  
> AG: How can you know that Fussyface?  
> AG: How can you 8e sure of what she's REALLY having for Christmas dinner????????  
> GA: I  
> GA: Am Not Particularly Fond Of This Line Of Conversation  
> GA: Ugh  
> GA: Hold On  
> AG: Holding!!!!!!!!
> 
> garmentAmeliorator [GA] ceased pestering adventurersGambit [AG]
> 
> tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]
> 
> TT: She genuinely believes that I'm going to eat it.  
> TT: It being the pony, but I'm sure you know that already. Serket likely has little to no respect for the privacy of others, and is probably copy and pasting like she's just discovered the control plus c and/or v function this very morning.   
> GA: Thats More Or Less Whats Happened Yeah  
> TT: Excellent.  
> TT: Now,  
> TT: How would you best think to describe the texture of pony meat? I'd compare it to chicken, but that's so horribly clichéd that it will likely come across as being a light-hearted jab.   
> GA: Oh For Fucks Sake You Two
> 
> \-- adventurersGambit [AG] was added to the conversation --
> 
> GA: There   
> GA: I Am Not Acting As Your Go Between Anymore  
> GA: I Am Also Saving You From The Strenuous Effort Of Having To Constantly Switch Chat Windows In Order To Copy And Paste At Me And Or Use Me To Help You Devise Your Wicked Shemes  
> TT: Well, this is comfortable.  
> AG: I didn't realise you were such a drunk, Lalonde!  
> TT: There's absolutely nothing wrong with drinking on a holiday whilst in the company of others.  
> AG: Ouch.  
> AG: Low 8low Lalonde.  
> AG: 8ut whatever!!!!!!!! I'm going to Fussyface's for New Year's Eve, so have fun spending that time with your MUM.  
> GA: Oh  
> GA: Youre Actually Coming Vriska Did You Finally Decide  
> TT: Hah.  
> TT: An interesting ruse. Kanaya wasn't even aware that these plans were of the concrete sort.  
> TT: But your capitalisation of the word mum really does succinctly highlight the problems I have with my one parental figure, and rest assured, I am deeply and psychological scarred by the overall effectiveness of your jab.  
> AG: Uuuuuuuugh, enough with the psychology mum8o-jum8o, Freud!  
> AG: And of coooooooourse I'm coming, Kanaya! ::::) Why wouldn't I want to?  
> GA: I Cant Say That I Know But  
> GA: I Am Glad Youve Decided To Come Up  
> GA: Ill Speak To My Mother And Help You Find The Appropriate Train Tickets Later  
> GA: Rose What Are You Doing On New Years Eve  
> AG: No.  
> AG: No no no no no no no no.  
> AG: D8n't you D8RE invite HER.  
> TT: I'm visiting my brother, actually, but thank you for what may have been the beginnings of an invitation. I've no doubt that Vriska will mourn my absence, but I hope you're both able to proceed with festivities nonetheless.  
> AG: How a8out you go fuck yourself Lalonde???????? I'm quite sure the evening with 8e at least 8 times 8etter without you there!  
> TT: Stop protesting so much. Your idiocy may well suit you, but I find it rather grating.   
> AG: Well now you know how I feel a8out every word that comes out of your dum8 mouth.  
> AG: Every  
> AG: goddamn  
> AG: word.  
> GA: Thats It  
> GA: Could The Both Of You Stop Acting Like Children For A Fraction Of A Second And Try Putting Things Into Perspective  
> GA: Its Christmas Day  
> GA: Im Trying To Talk To Two Of My Friends In Order To Wish Them Well Over The Holiday Period   
> GA: And Yet They Cannot Go For More Than A Hypothetical Moment Without Being At One Anothers Throats  
> GA: Wow Its Like Theyre Trying To Ruin The Day For Me Because Believe It Or Not  
> GA: I Dont Actually Want To Spend Christmas Mothering The Two Of You In Case You Somehow Discover How To Punch People Across The Internet  
> TT: ...  
> AG: ........  
> TT: Sorry.  
> AG: Dammit.  
> AG: I wanted to apologise first. >::::(  
> AG: Sorry.  
> TT: Ah, yes. The true mark of sincerity.   
> TT: But if it does anything to make you feel better, Kanaya, this is mostly done in jest. I don't have as great an issue with Serket as I like to make out for our mutual entertainment.  
> AG: Yeah.  
> AG: I don't actually h8 Lalonde.  
> TT: You don't?  
> AG: Can you not shut up for more than 8 seconds?  
> TT: I  
> TT: No, wait. We're dangerously close to getting at one another's throats again.  
> AG: Uh so, what's the 8ig deal?  
> AG: Oh.  
> AG: OH!  
> AG: Yeah ok, let's deal with this totally maturely!  
> TT: Let's do just that, Serket.  
> AG: I'm glad you agree Lalonde.  
> GA: You Two Are Absolutely Ridiculous For The Record  
> GA: I Am Going To Stream A Movie For The Three Of Us Now  
> GA: Do You Think You Can Manage To Keep Up You Façade Of Maturity Long Enough For Us To Watch It In Peace   
> TT: Without a doubt.  
> AG: Duh!  
> AG: If she can then there's no way that I'll fuck up.

*

     Vriska comes down a few days later, and you meet her from the station, smiling far more than is necessary when you see that she's wearing her new shoes and jacket. She's got a bag slung over her shoulder, and she reaches out, patting one of your shoulders in a half-hug. By the time you're back at your car, you're already stuck right into a conversation, as if you've been apart for a significant amount of time, as if you haven't been talking online practically every day with one another. She smokes in your car because you tell her that she can't smoke in your house, and when you get back, your mother makes so much of a fuss over her that even Vriska manages to seem bashful.

     You set her up in the guest room, and it's not until she's back with you that you realise how odd it's been, waking up without her being around. You're making meals for her without even thinking about it, and nothing about her being in your house seems strange. She might not be the most agreeable person, and you might've worried about how your mother would react to Vriska being Vriska, but it seems that all of your fears were unfounded. Vriska regards her with a rough sort of good humour, calls her _Miss Maryam_ or _ma'am_ , and offers to go out and pick up anything she needs from the supermarket. If only Vriska would make the effort to do the same for herself.

     It's nice when it's just the two of you, and you don't have to worry about studying, about getting to lectures; about doing _anything_ that doesn't consist of lounging around. Well, it's just the two of you when one of you doesn't have a laptop fired up, because more often than not, Rose can be found on the other side. You talk to her whenever you get the chance, and after a few days, Vriska stops caring quite as much. You even see her talk to Rose a couple of times, and when the two of them aren't worrying about what you might think of them, it doesn't look like they make such an effort to be hostile towards one another. At some points in their conversations you'd be forgiven for assuming that they were friends.

     You spend New Year's Eve at a pub, and then Karkat drags you to a party that one of his friends is hosting, and warns you that it's probably _fucking intolerable_. All things considered, it's not bad; not too few people that you feel at risk of being singled out for awkward conversational purposes, and not so many that you feel crowded. Midnight rolls around, and you kiss Vriska on the forehead. Vriska frowns, kisses your cheek, and then Karkat grumbles something into your ear that you don't quite catch. You think he's telling you to be careful.

     You and Vriska end up dragging Karkat back to your house, because he's had one vodka and coke too many, and you know how his dad will get if he stumbles back home at four in the morning, waking him up. Karkat sleeps on the sofa, and you spend the next day catching up with him, while Vriska stays in bed, nursing a hangover.

     There might be over a fortnight until you have to go back to university, but Vriska decides that she's overstayed her welcome, and heads back to your flat. You tell her that it really is alright if she wants to stay a little longer, and your mother assures her of the very same thing, but she says that it's fine, because she has _stuff_ to do, anyway. When you drive her back to the station so that she can catch her train, Vriska tells you to cheer up, because surely you can survive for a few weeks without her. She promises you that she'll actually set foot in the supermarket when she gets back, and you're nothing short of disappointed when you don't part with a hug.

     The rest of the break flies by. You attend to the few pieces of work that have been assigned for the winter break, and before you know it, you're packing your bags to head back to university. You breathe a sigh of relief when you unlock the front door to your flat and Vriska hasn't burnt the whole place to the ground, and once your bags are back in your room, you feel as if you've never been away.

     And you may as well not have been. Nothing changes. A few days into the semester, and there's Rose, giving you a slight nod as she tries to tip-toe out of your apartment on a Wednesday morning.

     You don't know what you were expecting, but for some reason, you never lingered on the fact that things would be like this again. More than anything, you wish you could say what it was that bothered you so much about it. You speak to Rose, and you're angry at Vriska for the way things are; you speak to Vriska, and your anger deflects onto Rose. The thing is that you know you have absolutely no right to be annoyed with either one of them, because they're just doing what they feel to be right, and they're entitled to do just that. They're entitled to have their fun, even if they do utterly disregard your feelings in the process.

     A few days later, you wake up at two AM, mouth as dry as a desert. It's not until you've left your room, crossed your apartment and reached the sink that you hear something come from Vriska's room. You freeze, hand hovering over the tap, because no, no, you really don't want to hear this. You want a drink, too, but worry that the sound of running water will be enough of a distraction to alert them to your presence, as if _you're_ the one who should be apologising for making too much noise here. Promptly deciding that you're not going to deal with this thirst for the rest of the night, you narrow your gaze, turn on the water, and do your utmost to block out any and all sounds that filter into the kitchen.

     But it's no good. They're not even trying to be quiet.

     It is, however, somewhat relieving to realise that they're arguing. It strikes you as being strange, because you were under the impression that neither Rose nor Vriska went to particularly great lengths to talk to each other when face to face, and from the mismatched words and fragmented sentences you do hear, there actually seems to be real spite in what they're saying – shouting – at one another. Whenever they bicker online, it's almost playful, like they're purposely trying to outdo one another, but there's nothing remotely light-hearted about this. They're angry at one another. Heading back to your room, it strikes you as being strange that this is the most they've ever seemed like an actual couple.

     These aren't just mindless insults they're throwing at one another. There's actually some sort of feeling behind it.

     Back in bed, you do them both the favour of putting your headphones in, lest you overhear any more of what they say. Even through the sound of your music, you still manage to hear Rose storm out of the apartment, door slamming behind her. Well aware that you're going to regret staying up so late in the morning, you get back out of bed and peek into the living room to see if Vriska's around. When you knock on her door, she tells you to get lost, because she doesn't want to talk to anyone right now. You respect her wishes, turn on your laptop, and wait to see if either Rose or Vriska sign on.

     You give it an hour, but neither one of them show.


	3. Chapter 3

     The next morning, Vriska looks roughly as tired as you feel.

     She sits on one of the kitchen stools, slumped over the side, groaning in frustration at everything and nothing all at once. Most of the time, she'll just glare down at the work top, head in her hands, but every so often, she looks up at you with the most pathetic expression imaginable. After ten minutes of this treatment, you cave, and end up making breakfast for her.

     There's little point in pretending that you don't know about the argument, because not even Vriska could be so self-centred to imagine that her voice didn't carry beyond the boundary of her bedroom. What's more, you can tell that Vriska clearly _does_ want to talk about whatever happened, because it's getting to her. It might be easy enough to see, but you know she'd bite your head off if you suggested that much. Sitting opposite her, and hoping that your own breakfast will succeed in making you feel energised enough to deal with a three hour lecture, you try to ask her what happened as casually as possible.

     “Lalonde is a bitch,” is all she'll tell you.

     “Informative,” you say, “And what particularly unsavoury thing did she do this time in order to earn your added contempt?”

     Rather than list off the crimes you're certain Vriska is convinced Rose committed, she just shrugs, spearing a piece of bacon and stabbing it into the ketchup. She smears it all around her plate, which is obviously going to make it so much easier to wash up.

     “I don't know,” she eventually says, quietly enough to let you know that she's fully aware of exactly what it is. “I don't even know how we got into that argument. It just came up, and then we started shouting and it was _stupid_ , ugh. It's just so retarded, Fussyface.”

     Again, that tells you absolutely nothing. Vriska keeps sighing away under her breath, and then drags her feet across the kitchen to make herself a coffee. You watch her out of the corner of your eye, well aware that she doesn't even like coffee; she must be feeling extraordinarily rough this morning. A sip in, she declares that _Bluh! This tastes like shit_ , and pours the whole cup down the sink.

     “Did you at least ensure that Rose made it back to her flat safely? Half past two in the morning is not the safest hour during which to head home.”

     Vriska throws herself back into her seat, staring disdainfully at the cup of orange juice you poured her.

     “Of course I did!” Vriska says, doing a great deal to get across just how offended she is by the insinuation that she wouldn't give a flying fuck whether or not Rose ended up in a ditch. “Jesus, I'm not heartless, Kanaya.”

     In truth, you're a little surprised that Vriska did check, but more than that, you're pleased by it. You're under no illusion that Vriska's idea of checking consisted of little more than sending Rose a rather tactful text message alone the lines of Don't die on the way home retard!!!!!!!! and that Rose replied with something like I'm sincerely grateful for your genuine concern, and would like to inform you that I made it back to my accommodation without a single problem, but it's better than nothing.

     You stack up the dirty plates by the sink, and Vriska scrapes back her stool, saying that she _guesses_ she'll wash the dishes, because she _guesses_ that you did all the cooking, and you wonder if you've inadvertently made her feel that she's not pulling her weight around the flat. Goodness knows you've never said anything spiteful or bordering on passive aggressive, at least not intentionally so, and so you let the situation boil down to Vriska being Vriska, and deal with all the clattering that comes of her trying to wash pots and pans.

     With the time you've spent trying to cheer Vriska up, all to no avail, you don't have as long as you'd like to get ready. You rush your shower, only have time to shampoo, not condition, and as you leave, you give Vriska what you hope is a reassuring squeeze of her shoulder. By the time you reach the lecture theatre, you're _almost_ late, and end up having to sit tucked away at the back of the theatre, far from you usual band of classmates. It's only your elective module, so you don't mind your attention span fading in and out as the lecturer rambles on, but you'd still rather you didn't fall asleep.

     You pull your laptop out of your bag, hoping to find something to distract yourself with, and get a little more than you were necessarily expecting.

>   
> tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]
> 
> TT: When one enters into an argument within the confines of four walls, it can be easy to forget that sound does, in actuality, travel through said diversionary barriers. It belatedly occurred to me that I was not as quiet as I could've been last night.  
> TT: Perhaps.  
> TT: Maybe you slept through the whole ordeal. If that's the case, the answer to a potential follow up question you may have of "What ordeal?" is: I don't know what you're talking about.  
> GA: Dont Worry About Covering Your Tracks  
> GA: I Know Exactly What Youre Referring To  
> TT: Excellent.  
> TT: ... not excellent. That means I woke you up, doesn't it?  
> GA: Either That Or I Spoke To Vriska This Morning  
> GA: Which I Did  
> TT: I doubt she was particularly forthcoming.  
> TT: But needless to say, I won't be imposing on your living space any longer.  
> GA: What  
> GA: Why  
> GA: Just Because You Had A Falling Out With Vriska  
> GA: And I Use That Term As Loosely As I Possibly Can Without Losing My Grip On It Entirely Knowing The Two Of You  
> GA: But Just Because You Had A Falling Out With Vriska Doesnt Mean That You Have To Stop Coming Over  
> TT: It doesn't?  
> GA: Of Course Not  
> GA: Were Friends Arent Me  
> TT: Hm.  
> TT: I suppose I never thought of it that way before.  
> GA: Then What Way Did You Think Of It  
> TT: As previously stated, that I was an imposition.   
> GA: Well  
> GA: Youre Not Not At All  
> TT: Then I amend my last statement.  
> TT: I'll no longer be taking breakfast at your flat.   
> GA: What A Blow To My Firmly Establish Daily Routine That Will Be  
> GA: So  
> GA: Is There Any Chance That Either Of You Will Inform Me Of Why You Had The Shall We Say Falling Out In The First Place  
> TT: Care to make an educated guess?  
> GA: I Suppose That Means That You Wouldnt Care To Would You  
> GA: And Vriska Isnt Saying Anything On The Matter  
> GA: Despite The Fact That She Usually Has Many Things To Say About Many Matters  
> GA: Especially Those That Happen To Revolve In A Negative Manner Around You  
> TT: She's physically capable of shutting up?  
> TT: I, for one, am truly boggled.  
> GA: Yeah Sure Lets Change The Subject By Means Of Insulting Vriska  
> TT: It's for the best that it stays between the two of us.  
> GA: Okay  
> GA: I Can Respect That Much  
> GA: In Spite Of My Insatiable Curiosity  
> GA: Really I Had No Pertinent Desire To Sleep Tonight  
> TT: I've no doubt your thoughts will occupy you so.  
> TT: And now that I've apologised, I can make my way to class without that pesky tugging at my conscience.  
> GA: Oh Youre Leaving So Soon  
> GA: I Suppose I Will Have To Find Some Other Way To Entertain Myself Throughout This Lecture  
> TT: You could always try paying attention.  
> GA: Hmm A Novel Concept  
> GA: I Will Speak With You At A Thus Far Undetermined Later Point Rose  
> TT: Of course.  
> TT: Bye.
> 
> tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]

     The rest of the lecture is dedicated to browsing various fashion blogs you follow, justified by the fact that you're actively learning something. Even if that something happens to be that you could do much, much better. You're toying with the idea of setting up your own blog when the sound of dozens of students simultaneously getting to their feet drags you back into the real world, and you close your laptop, following suit. After your second and final lecture of the say, with no other plans laid out for immediate future, you take a slow walk back to your flat, and aren't surprised in the least to find Vriska sprawled out across the sofa.

     Unbuttoning your jacket, you off-handedly mention that you've just spoken to Rose, and pretend that you don't know Vriska's timetable well enough to be privy to the fact she's skipping class.

     “Oh, greeeeeeeeat,” Vriska says, but no matter how flat her tone may be, she still sits up and glances over the back of the sofa at you. If you didn't know any better, you'd say she looked worried. Like she thinks you know more than you really do. You regret it short seconds afterwards, but for a moment, you stand there silently, letting Vriska think that very thing. “Whatever Lalonde said, it's not that I— ugh, I mean, I _do_ , but it's retarded. It's just that...”

     She's floundering, getting far too frustrated at herself, fingers raking through her hair as she pointedly avoids looking at you. The corner of your mouth tugs downwards, and you're disappointed in yourself for trying to get to the bottom of whatever this is when neither Rose nor Vriska want to discuss it. Crossing the room, you press a palm to the back of Vriska's hand, carefully untangle it from her hair, and distract yourself by smoothing it down. Vriska tuts under her breath, but doesn't try to shuffle away from you.

     “I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Vriska,” you tell her, “Rose simply suggested that I mind my own business, and I believe it's for the best that I do just that.”

     “Your own business. Riiiiiiiight.” She's picking at already chipped blue nail polish with her thumbnail.

     “Considering that you will not be—” You pause for half a second, picking your next word carefully. “Occupied tonight, would you like to go out for dinner? The venue will be entirely of your own choosing, of course.”

     Vriska's enthusiasm for food increases when there's a chance of it being dangerously greasy, and getting out of the flat in a context that doesn't involve alcohol should be good for her. If it's for the greater good, then you suppose you can suffer an evening spent in the local fish and chip shop, though you're already dreading the thought of trying to wash the smell out of your hair. Vriska seems to consider it, looks to you, and then promptly looks away, shaking her head.

     “In that case, I see no reason not to spend the rest of the night taming your currently hairstyle,” you say, using the word _style_ frivolously, fingers still dragging through her hair.

     “Fucking _fine_ ,” Vriska huffs, yanking her head away from your hands, wincing when it causes you to inadvertently pull on a few stray strands of hair. She rolls onto her back, stares glumly up at the ceiling, and you tell her that it doesn't look as if she's getting ready, though you've been wrong before. Whether in a good mood or a bad one, Vriska Serket always has plenty to say, and the fact that she does nothing more than scowl tells you that she's feeling something a lot more complicated than any of that right now. Grudgingly, she throws her legs over the side of the sofa, sits up, and pulls on her red Converse while you button your jacket back up.

     Just as expected, the two of you end up _John Fish and Chips_ , and when you wonder out loud why nobody thought to make the name possessive, Vriska jabs you in the side with her elbow and tugs you through the door, in case you go off on a grammatically-themed tirade. It's quiet inside, and once you've placed your orders, you sit in the back, greatly enjoying the hard, red plastic chairs and the sticky surface of the table before you. The place gets a lot of business, but it usually comes with drunk students at two in the morning, after the nearby clubs close, so you have what may as be be all the time in the world to sit there with Vriska. You order fish and chips twice, but then Vriska decides that she wants a burger too, along with two cans of coke and a bottle of some caffeinated nonsense that's likely to keep her up for half of the night.

     You use the plastic cutlery to carefully cut your fish up, and watch as Vriska inhales her meal. When she eats, she doesn't mess around. It's a little impressive.

     The dangerously high calorific intake does something to better her mood, or at least dull her mind enough to take it off whatever it was she was thinking about. You stay in the fish and chip shop long after your polystyrene trays are cleared, scrunched up paper that was once wrapped around the chips turning see-through with grease. You manage to go an entire conversation without mentioning Rose Lalonde, and the longer the the two of you just there talking aimlessly, the nicer you realise it is. You're in a grimy little restaurant that has no hope in hell of passing a health inspection, watching Vriska gesticulate as she tells you about the time she tried to hot wire her foster mother's car, and your stomach feels funny.

     You don't think it has anything to do with it protesting against what you've just eaten.

     You look at her as she speaks, so focused on thinking that her words go straight in one ear and out the other. Vriska's no longer tied down, officially or otherwise, and now would be the perfect time to act on this strange feeling that's been making you a bundle of nerves since you first met her. You're steadily running out of excuses not to, because you know that whatever it was she had with Rose is over, you know she's not going to turn you down on account of you being a girl, and if you don't get your act together soon, it might be too late. Vriska's bound to meet someone else, and then you'll be stuck making breakfast for some girl whose name she barely knows again.

     But you've always known deep down that Vriska doesn't want you. Not in the way that you want her to want you, at least. You could make yourself available to her. You could grab her by the shoulders not a moment after setting foot inside your front door and kiss her, but it wouldn't do any good. You could never go through with something that loose, that casual. The thought of becoming just another name that Vriska forgets soon after doesn't sit well with you, and that's the thing that really gets to you. You like her so, _so_ much, but Vriska would probably disregard your feelings entirely, and by that point you would've given over more to her than you can afford to be without.

     You'd much rather keep her as a friend than become a stranger who's occasionally permitted into her bed. It strikes you as unkind, writing her off in such a way, but you can only assess hypothetical situations based on what you've seen thus far.

     Deciding that you've overstayed your welcome, you move to leave the restaurant, and Vriska waves her thanks over her shoulder to what you suppose pass for cooks in such an establishment. Outside, you pull up your hood to protect your hair from the static of drizzle, and Vriska holds out her arm, because she figured that you'd want to take it, or something laaaaaaaame like that. The corner of your mouth twitches into what you hope she takes to be a smile, and your chest tightens uncomfortably as you do just that, walking shoulder to shoulder with her.

     Vriska actually thanks you for dragging her out, and as you pass in and out of puddles of light cast by street lights, you think that you were rather unfair to Vriska short minutes ago. Maybe it wouldn't be as much of a disaster as you've made it out to be. It's easy to place all of the future blame on Vriska to cover up the fact that you're too scared to take a chance. You sigh to yourself, resting your head on Vriska's shoulder as you walk, and she lets out a brief laugh, though she doesn't explain what's so funny. Deciding that it's best not to think too hard about it, you stroll along, unable to feel quite so disconnected from the conversation by the weight of your own thoughts when she starts reciting lines from her latest production out loud.

     By the time you get home, your jacket is covered in a sheen of mist, wet to the touch, and you scold yourself for not thinking to put an umbrella in your bag. Vriska, caring nothing for how damp her clothing is, kicks off both shoes, and you can't really care about where they end up when she's still holding onto your arm like that. You turn to her, the momentum naturally causing your arm to pull away, and she grips on tightly, not letting you go anywhere. You raise your brow, bemused, and Vriska doesn't look like she has a much better idea of what's going on than you do.

     “Uhhhhhhhh,” she says. Well put.

     And then she's lifting a hand, making you flinch, as if she's going to thwack it out against your face. Vriska laughs through her nose, says, “Calm down, Fussyface. I just—” and then her fingertips are scrunching together in your hair. “There! Just a leeeeeeeeaf.”

     “Oh,” you say, gaze very much focused on the sodden brown leaf she's plucked from your hair. “Yes, that certainly is a leaf.”

     “Yeah,” Vriska agrees, and then shakes out her hand until it falls to the ground. She mouths _oh_ as she belatedly remembers to unlink your arms, and then takes a few steps backwards in the rough direction of her bedroom. “I'm going to, you know. Call it a night, because I definitely have a lot of lines to learn for tomorrow. That's why!”

     You assure her that of course it is, and make yourself busy in the kitchen, preparing a packed lunch for tomorrow. As you boil a pot of pasta and begin slicing up an assortment of vegetables, you hear a dull thudding, and strongly suspect that it's the sound of Vriska Serket banging her head against the wall.

*

     You've finally come to a conclusion: you're a terrible person.

     That's all there is to it. You barely even need to expand on that statement, because it's overwhelmingly informative in its simplicity. That's all that needs to be said on the matter, and you can now carry on with your life, no longer burdened by not knowing. You, Kanaya Maryam, are nothing short of monstrous, utterly _shameless_ in your every waking though, it seems, and now there's nothing to do but push past this all. Easier said than done, of course. You can't stop going over it time and time again whenever you have a spare moment.

     You attempt to find refuge in your laptop, but don't get the opportunity to make yourself appear offline before somebody messages you. You debate simply ignoring the message and browsing your favourite fashion blogs, but you know that ultimately, such fine garments don't deserved to be glared at through your screen. The second option available to you involves slamming your laptop shut, but that's no good. You're already typing a response.

>   
> tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]
> 
> TT: Don't go anywhere.  
> GA: I Wasnt Planning On Absconding Actually

     Additionally, you're now a liar.

>   
> TT: I don't believe that for a moment, but,  
> TT: Thank you.  
> TT: Now, would you please hear me out, Kanaya?   
> GA: Hear You Out  
> GA: While I Am More Than Willing To Participate In The Part Of This Conversation That Relies On My Silently Absorbing The Information You Impart Upon Me  
> GA: Though I Suspect That It Will Only Make Me Uncomfortable  
> GA: But Less So Than Not Hearing It And Imagining This Conversation Unfold Countless Times In The Back Of My Own Mind  
> GA: Well While I Am Willing As I Said I Am Not Certain That You Should Be The One Being Heard Out  
> GA: Rather  
> GA: Shouldnt I Be Trying To Explain Myself  
> GA: If Theres Any Explaining To Be Done  
> GA: More Like Apologising At This Point Really    
> TT: Kanaya, I understand that you're upset. No one would ramble that much if they weren't.  
> TT: But you've honestly done nothing wrong.  
> TT: No more than Vriska and I have, at any rate.  
> TT: Which, in retrospect...  
> TT: ...   
> GA: Wow  
> GA: Thats Encouraging  
> GA: Anyway In Spite Of Your Protests To The Contrary I Still Feel Utterly Awful  
> GA: And Embarrassed  
> GA: I Should Just Recalibrate My Brain To Mouth Filter In Order To Stop Such Appalling Things Escaping   
> TT: Looking back on things, it wasn't terribly smooth, no.   
> GA: Rose   
> TT: I'm not helping, am I?   
> GA: Not Even A Little Bit No   
> TT: Apologies.    
> GA: Well  
> GA: Regardless  
> GA: I Think I Should Go Speak To Vriska About This Before  
> GA: I Dont Know What Could Possibly Happen As A Result Of My Not Speaking Up  
> GA: But I Should  
> GA: Do That   
> TT: You've yet to hear me out.   
> GA: I Know  
> GA: I Should Just  
> GA: Talk To Vriska First   
> TT: Fine.    
> GA: Sorry   
> TT: It's fine. 
> 
> tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]

     You shut your laptop without closing the chat window, and immediately regret it. You don't want to have to catch a glimpse of the conversation the next time you open it back up. With some reluctance, you manage to heave yourself up, even though your legs are currently like lead, or jelly, or something as equally useless for walking with. Diving back into your bed and not emerging until you have to drag yourself off to lectures seems like the most rational, well thought-out thing to do in this situation, but you've told Rose that you're going to talk to Vriska, and somehow, you can't help but feel as if she'll _know_ if you don't.

     Opening your bedroom door, you glance out into your flat, and there's Vriska, bundled up on the sofa, too transfixed by the TV to even bother looking your way.

     You have absolutely no idea of what you're going to say to her. There's no way to put this that doesn't somehow seem obnoxious, over dramatic, like you're trying to rub salt in her wounds. Really, how _is_ this going to go? Are you going to walk up to Vriska Serket, and tell her that you've been spending a lot of time with Rose Lalonde, lately? Are you going to tell her that you meet with her when her shifts end, and after class too, sometimes, and that you go to quiet corners of the library and read together? Are you going to tell Vriska that when Rose told you how much of an avid knitter she was, your heart did some sort of bizarre, gymnastics routine in your chest, even though you're supposed to like _her_? No, you're not. You're not going to say any of that, because Vriska doesn't need to know.

     This absurd crush you've been fostering, or whatever it may be, has been a secret up until this point, and there's no need for Vriska to know about it now. Because it's never going to go anywhere, anyway, and so there's no need to burden her with the knowledge.

     You need to approach this situation with care. With more care than you've been approaching things lately, apparently, judging by the way you seem to be recklessly throwing your feelings about every which way. Determined not to linger in the doorway any longer, you brazenly stroll across the living room, right towards Vriska and then—

     Pass straight by her, and end up in the kitchen.

     On your second attempt, you have a glass of water in your hand, so as not to make it seem like you've been wandering aimlessly. Not that Vriska's paid you any heed in the five minutes you've been in her general vicinity, so it's more of the sort of thing that makes you feel better about your ceaseless hesitation. Whatever you say needs to be quick and to the point, because although you honestly don't want to have to mumble so much as a single word on the subject to Vriska, you know that she deserves to know. Because it's about her, and Rose has let slip something that Vriska obviously doesn't want known.

     And you can't keep going about your business, acting as if you're none the wiser.

     There's no need to stop as you speak. Just keep on walking, keep heading to your room, and casually mention that:

     “Rose told me why the two of you stopped—” Not dating. Don't say dating. “Seeing one another.”

     There, it's done. That wasn't so difficult, was it? Your vision tunnels as you bolt back to your room, and although you hear Vriska turn towards you with a _What the fuck?_ , you don't look back, don't engage her in any way. Because she's going to be angry, and more than that, she's going to be embarrassed, and she won't want you, of all people, there to witness the realisation dawning on her.

     Door closed behind you, you lean against it, head tilting back. Of all the things you wish you could take back, upon Rose telling you that her and Vriska had called things off after mutually developing feelings, and not for one another, your reply of _Well, that's probably for the best. I wouldn't have been able to choose between the two of you_ , is right at the top of your list.

*

     Vriska avoids you for the next week.

     She flat-out refuses to come out of her room when you're around. When you knock, after two days, and inquire as to whether she's going to go to her lecture or not, because she can probably make it if she leaves now, she tells you to fuck off and mind your own fucking business. Fair enough, you suppose. That isn't to say she's holed up in there, though. Whenever you're in your own room or the shower, there are doors slamming throughout the flat, and she's gone as quickly as you can wrap a towel around yourself.

     It all feels a little unreal. When Rose accidentally blurted out (or not so accidentally, perhaps, because she kept giving you these _looks_ for days, parting her lips but quickly changing her mind about speaking) the truth of the matter, you immediately convinced yourself over and over that it couldn't be true. There was no way that one person liked you, let alone two, and there was no way that either of them were Rose or Vriska. But with the way that Vriska's reacting so spitefully, there's no way to delude yourself into thinking that you've got the wrong end of the stick, or that Rose was simply playing with you in order to see how you'd react.

     It's still difficult to properly comprehend. All this time, Vriska has liked _you_. She can't have done so very much, if she was willing to keep on sleeping with Rose all the while, you think bitterly, and then think it's not fair to judge her like that. You're flatmates. It would've been difficult for the both of you, and it's hardly as if you went ahead and let Vriska know that she would've stood a chance with you. Hell, maybe you even intimidated her. Vriska might be boisterous at the best of times, but you know how she acts, when she doesn't think anyone's around or when she's had one drink too many. She isn't her own biggest fan, and the things she'll mumble under her breath about her _fucking retarded goddamn missing eye_ make you cringe. You want to reach out and put an arm around her, and tell her it's alright to let you know what happened to it.

     But now, you've royally messed things up. There's no talking it over to be done with Vriska, because she won't even give you the chance to pass a single word her way and she's blocked you online, and every time you try to meet with Rose, you feel endlessly guilty about just _being_ there, like you've chosen her over Vriska. And Vriska's presence lingering in the back of your mind aside, things are just uncomfortable around her.

     Life was so much easier when you had a crush on an oblivious Vriska and Rose, and they were happily screwing each other a room away in your flat.

     Disproportionate feelings of guilt be dammed, you decide. You managed to get along perfectly well with the two of them before they were any the wiser when it came to your feelings (which, you belatedly note, Vriska _still_ doesn't know about), and so you don't see why that should have to change now. You can still be friends. These feelings come and go, and you're certain that's what's going to happen here. There might be a good deal of time in the middle devoted to said feelings fluttering around, hitting you in waves, but you can handle it.

     Checking the time on your phone, you realise that Rose's shift should just about be coming to an end, and that it's a perfect time to stick to your resolution of ensuring that things go back to being how they were before. Confusing at the best of times, yes, but bearable. Better than whatever this is. You force yourself to smile, and the person walking the corridor in the opposite direction to you scrunches up their face, somewhere between bemusement and second-hand embarrassment, but you ignore them, marching into the coffee shop as if you're late for you caffeine appointment.

     _Hello, Rose_ , you're going to say. _I read a new book, recently, and while engrossed in a particularly chapter dealing, in great depth, with séance that resulted in the inadvertent summoning of a tentacle ridden creature, I thought you might enjoy it. Perhaps I could lend you my copy._ That's what you're going to say, because it's an absolutely standard conversation opener, as far as Rose Lalonde is concerned. It's true, too. You really did think of her when you got to that particularly grim part of your novel.

     Rose isn't behind the counter when you arrive, and your first reaction is to worry that she's already made her way home. Running into her on campus is one thing, but tracking her down in her accommodation is another. She might not even be there. If she's down with her pony at the stables, then it's going to be nothing but a wasted journey. But not wanting to fret preemptively, you look around, and panic over, there she is. She's sat at a table with her apron still on, talking to Vriska, and—and...

     “Oh,” you say to yourself, glad that neither one of them seem to have spotted you. Someone bumps into your shoulder as they pass, and as they say _Sorry, love_ , you murmur that it's alright, and turn to leave. It's not so much that it's unexpected; more along the lines that it just didn't occur to you, and now you're wondering why you didn't even take this into consideration. If Vriska and Rose are going to, well. Not get back together, per se, because they weren't really an item in the first place. But if they're going to try making _something_ of this, at least, then that's probably for the best. That will solve all of your decision-based problems, and you'll be back to square one, dealing with things as well as you did before.

*

     Whenever you hear a misplaced noise in the night, you assume it's Rose Lalonde roaming around your flat.

     Possibly in Vriska's clothing.

     You don't know why that last part comes to mind, but it's how things always go on TV, so it may as well hold true for reality. Although you're suddenly noticing every creaking floorboard and groaning hinge, you find no evidence of Rose actually being there. There are no extra breakfasts to make, no suspicious showers being taken while both you and Vriska are located firmly outside of the bathroom, and no loud music blaring out of Vriska's room. In spite of all that, you're certain that _something_ has to be going on between the two of them. Vriska isn't the sort of person who'd willingly meet up with Rose for a cup of coffee if it wasn't important. After all, it was _day time_. To Vriska's never ending horror, they could've been seen together.

     It's Vriska's mood that's really getting to you. She's finally lounging around the living area again, and she's acting like absolutely nothing has happened. There's nothing uncomfortable about her body language, she doesn't avoid eye contact, and has no problems with asking you to pleeeeeeeese cook her up something for dinner. You do just that, eyes trained on her the whole time, like she's about to go for your throat, because there's something _far_ too suspicious about this all. Vriska's moods are inexplicable, and you never know when one is going to swing into another, but even this is too much for you and your seven months experience as her flatmate.

     Maybe this is her own way of expressing her guilt. If Vriska's with Rose now, then Vriska might be level-headed enough for once to realise that it isn't going to be as easy as it could on you. She's taking her time to make things alright again, to get things back to normal, so that it won't be as rough when she finally forces the truth out of her throat. Or so you suspect. Perhaps it's not the best idea in the world to try predicting what's currently rolling around inside of her head; assuming that she has ulterior motives is already taking a big enough leap.

     No matter what's going on, you think you'd like for things to go back to normal. This whole situation has been absurdly distracting, and you don't want to think about how bad things would be if you actually _had_ a girlfriend. This whole perpetually-single business is good for your health.

     The Friday after you came across Rose and Vriska in the coffee shop (and you still feel as if you were spying on them, somehow, in spite of it being a perfectly public place), Vriska's behaviour switches back from weirdly-normal to weirdly-weird. It's almost a relief.

     You're home later than you'd like, having had to turn in a project, and all you really want to do is curl up on your bed with a good book for a few hours. Highly social of you, you know, but you have no desire to stress yourself out even more by dragging yourself out of the flat to somewhere you don't want to be. Unfortunately for you, before you can get your bedroom door open, Vriska's placed herself between you and it. With her hands shoved in her pockets, she rocks on the balls of her feet, eye unusually wide.

     “Is there something wrong?” you ask.

     “Nope,” Vriska says, and then just lifts her brow as if that's all there is to say on the matter. Which would be fine, if she wasn't forming a human barricade.

     “Then you're just standing in front of my bedroom door for the sake of your health. I see.”

     Vriska laughs, sounding surprisingly good humoured, and then pulls a hand from her pocket to jerk a thumb towards the living area. Not feeling that you should take your eyes off her for so much as a second, the corner of your mouth slants downwards, and very cautiously, you look over to the coffee table in front of the sofa. Beneath a hideously large pile of chocolate and crisps, you can see the edge of a pizza box poking out, all offerings nicely polished off with a few bottles of soda.

     “Jeeeeeeeeez, I just figured we could have a film night!” Vriska says, trying to make her face the very picture of innocence and failing horribly. “There's no need to be so suspicious, Fussyface.”

     You find your arms folded across your chest, suspicion only increased by Vriska's insistence on you not being suspicious, because that certainly is a lot of food for two people to get through. Even when one of them is Vriska Serket. Before you can protest, and tell her that it's a very nice thought, thank you, but you'd really like to finish off your book, she's got both hands on your shoulders, and is pushing you towards the living area. Not wanting to trip over backwards, you relent, turn towards the sofa, and then sit down. As soon as you do so, Vriska pushes on your shoulder, and doesn't let up until you're sat directly in the centre of the sofa. That done, she sits next to you, doesn't turn on the television, and keeps on checking her watch every few seconds.

     Despite all of the effort Vriska's made to get you there, all of a sudden, you feel invisible. Like you were a chore she had to get over and done with, and now she's waiting for her evening to really get started. After a few moments of silence spent looking around your living room as if you're a guest in someone else's house, you ask Vriska what film you're going to watch. She tells you to _shhhhhhhh_ , and when the buzzer sounds, letting you know that someone's here to see you, she hops to her feet. You can practically feel her heart speed up from across the room.

     “I'll get it!” she announces, knocking her shin on the corner of the coffee table and not even bothering to swear under her breath as she darts across the room. She doesn't even ask who's trying to get in; she just presses the button, and with a shrill sound, the buzzer lets your guest know that they can come in.

     You could guess who it is, if pressured, but you try not thinking about it. Maybe this isn't going to be as disastrous as you expect it to be.

     Vriska opens the front door before your mystery visitor has the chance to knock, and you look over the back of the sofa, deciding to get it over and done with. Holding a half-open umbrella in one hand, rain dripping from both it and her jacket, stands one Rose Lalonde, and you hate the compulsion to rush over and get her into something dry you feel. It's just as shame for you that as soon as the urge passes, it's replaced by another; specifically, the urge to bury your face in your hands.

     Because really, there's only one way this could play out. Rose is only here for one reason, and that's because her and Vriska have finally made things _official_ , and they want to tell you. They want to tell you together, and oh god, you don't think you can even pretend to be happy for them. And it's not that you aren't happy, it's just that you're a tad— _jealous_ , which is a ridiculous, not to mention childish, way to be, but you can't help yourself. While you don't want your friends to suffer, you don't want them to be happy around you. You especially don't want to watch a movie with them while they're busy being all couple-y, giving each other couple-like glances.

     (And even in your irrational state of mind, that doesn't sound like a thing that Vriska and Rose would do. Ever. But it's the only explanation, and, shit, Rose is talking to you, at least make it seem like you're paying attention.)

     “Sorry for having kept you waiting,” Rose says, shrugging her jacket off into Vriska's waiting hands. Trust you to notice how lovely she looks with rain on her face. “The weather took a turn for the worst, and the traffic was abysmal as a result. You'd almost think that people here weren't used to the rain.”

     Rather calmly, Rose makes her way across the room, and sits neatly at your side. She's smiling still, and this is the longest you've ever seen her consecutively smile for. You're _definitely_ missing something here, if Rose is being so obviously nervous. It might not be obvious to anyone else, you think, but you've been around her long enough to know when she does and doesn't have her calm about her. Still not knowing what the hell's going on, you look back to Vriska, who drops Rose's coat on the floor with a shrug, and then scrambles over the back of the sofa, landing next to you.

     “Want some pizza, Lalonde?” she asks, picking up the remotes, getting the TV on and the DVD running.

     “Please,” Rose replies, and she's looking at you. She's looking at you, when there's a film about to play right in front of her. Your eyes are glued to the screen.

     The two of them start eating pizza either side of you, and there is definitely something very, very weird going on here. Hands bundled into fists at your knees, you cautiously turn your head and look at Vriska. She smiles at you, a string of melted cheese caught between her teeth and the pizza slice in her hand. Your attention immediately snaps back onto the television, and after a moment spent building your courage back up, you look at Rose, too. She smiles at you, eating her takeaway pizza in what can only be described as an absurdly refined manner.

     That's it.

     There's only one thing for it.

     You lean forward, bury your face in your hands, and groan.

     “Is something wrong?” Rose asks. You feel a hand, Vriska's hand, rest between your shoulder blades. You tense up all the more, and then feel as if you might break into a thousand tiny pieces when Rose's arm wraps around your shoulders.

     “Forgive me if I am pointing out the obvious,” you say, head and heart alike pounding, because they're both leaning in _so_ close, as if that will help them discern what's wrong with you. This is the worst possible time to realise how hungry you are, and just how good that pizza smells. “But I have absolutely no idea what the bug-winged flying fucking is going on here.”

     “Going on?” Rose asks, amused, and you're about to say _Yes, that's exactly what I said, Rose_ , when you feel her nose press to your cheek. Vriska rubs at your back and places her other hand on your knee, and you breathe in sharply, certain that you're never going to exhale again, so long as you live. Which won't be long now, what with the way that Rose has decided to resolve matters by kissing you. Just on your cheek, yes, but it's a kiss nonetheless. “Nothing's going on. We're simply watching a film together. Can you please lean back, Kanaya? We're missing a good part.”

     Well, you're going to have to come up for air eventually. You drop your hands back to your knees, but you're not happy about it. Especially not with the way that you end up covering one of Vriska's hands with your own. You then come to the dilemma of feeling terribly uncomfortable touching her like that, but you don't want to yank your hand back, either. You don't want it to seem like you're flailing. Even if that is, strictly, speaking exactly what you're doing.

     When you lean back against the sofa, Vriska and Rose don't return to their original positions. Vriska quite brazenly leans against your side, and then there's Rose, with her head rested on your shoulder. This is, quite possibly, the greatest moment of your life thus far, and you're wasting it on your dedication to confusion.

     “Are you two both—?” you ask, only able to manage half a question. The gears in your head are slowly turning. They both like you, and they know that you like them, and Vriska's hand is on your knee, keep breathing, just keep breathing, Maryam. You're not jumping to conclusions now. You have to embrace this for what it is. “That is, are we...”

     You're relieved when Vriska cuts you off with laughter, and then Rose has momentarily pulled away from you in order to tear you off a piece of pizza. Handing it over to you, she gets comfortable against your side, one arm around your waist, and says, “Let's just watch the film, shall we? It's one of my favourites, and we can always save any conversations for once it's drawn to a close.”

     “That sounds like a good idea,” you find yourself agreeing too quickly. It all comes out as one word.

     And so you eat your pizza as the film plays in front of you. You eat it in quick, careful bites, make sure to lick your fingers clean afterwards, and then find the courage to place one arm around Rose's shoulders. She lets out a little contented noise, and then Vriska grunts. You can't help but smile, and then you slide your arm between Vriska's back and the sofa, making sure she isn't feeling too neglected.

     Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and you have no idea of what's happening, either in the film before you or your life itself. You have officially lost control. But you have Rose Lalonde and Vriska Serket curled up against you on the sofa, and your face is fantastically red. For now, that will have to be enough.


End file.
